


Truth Revealed

by Bethann, Susana Rosa (SusanaR)



Series: Teenaged Faramir AU of AU of Legendary Friendship and Desperate Hours AUs [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Corporal Punishment, Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-03-30 08:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13948197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethann/pseuds/Bethann, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/pseuds/Susana%20Rosa
Summary: Some truths must be faced.





	1. Legolas pov

**Author's Note:**

> It will help if you first read the prequel to this, "One Good Turn" and the notes that go with it.

The sun that had been glowing soft orange only an hour ago, now blazed like a yellow inferno in the summer sky. As Legolas straightened his back from his kneeling position in the newly tilled dirt, he wiped his shirt sleeve across his sweaty brow, and noticed that Minas Tirith was now bathed in bright summer sunlight. There was not a wisp of cloud to be seen, so that the city stood out brilliantly white against the deep blue sky. The White City was indeed appropriately named! He could understand the thrill of it coming into sight that Boromir had spoken about when he mentioned his returning home all those months ago. Sadly Boromir had never made it home again, but it was an honor to be part of the effort to beautify the city that his lost companion had once loved.  
  
Still if he were perfectly honest with himself, the young elf had to admit that he was personally pretty weary of looking at unending stone. It was a pleasure to be near green and growing things, even if it was only a small patch of land on the sixth level of the city. It was wonderful to be in the fresh air and dig in the cool earth, and it was made even better by the fact that he was doing all these things without someone watching him!   
  
This was the first day in over three weeks that he had been out of sight of his dwarven guardian, for Gimli had meant it quite literally when he had dictated that penalty after what Legolas now thought of as “the pipe weed incident”.   He could not deny that it had been a fair sanction considering the long list of rules that he and Faramir had broken and the number of direct orders  they had disobeyed, but  still it had been extremely trying!    
  
Well perhaps ‘extremely trying’ was a slight exaggeration, for after the first three days it hadn’t been as bad as he had feared it would be.  The first few days were difficult, though, for Gimli had spent two of them holed up in their shared suite, sketching  plans and scribbling  notes and had hardly looked up even to speak to Legolas at all other than to thank him for the tea he had poured for him a few times throughout the day.  Gimli hadn’t even left their quarters for meals, but had food sent up.  The only people Legolas saw for the first two days, other than Gimli, were the servants who brought food to them.  He thought he  now knew how prisoners felt!  Admittedly, the first day, he hadn’t minded much, for he was still exhausted and even a little stiff and sore from the events of the day before, not to mention the fact that he was not keen to run into all the people who had been involved in the search for him and his friend.  There was hardly a soul anywhere within the Citadel or anywhere on the sixth level that had not been involved.  
  
On day two, though, he had felt a bit better and  the monotony of watching Gimli’s tedious work and listening to him grunt distracted, one-word responses outweighed the embarrassment of facing the public.  That day had been torturously long, though it was nothing in comparison to day three when Gimli had finally left their quarters to conduct interviews and choose  the men who would be part of the team to repair the main gate.  Legolas had been made to sit next to his guardian as he spoke to the men,  and his  being there had been so  obviously superfluous that he had been certain that everyone knew that he was in disgrace and being punished like a misbehaving child.  Gimli hadn’t been very sympathetic either, telling him when he muttered a complaint, that if he didn’t wish to be treated like a naughty elfling, he shouldn’t behave like one.   That was the worst day of all.  
  
After that, though, things improved considerably.  The next day, Gimli had begun the actual work on the gates and Legolas, along with the men and dwarves hired for the job,  had been given the task of helping with sorting through the damaged stone and metal and deciding what could be repurposed for the new gates and what needed to be removed from the area and then there was measuring and marking where the wall extension and the gates posts were to go. Having something practical to do went a long way in making the days easier, and at least he was outside.    
  
Admittedly it had been actually quite  interesting sometime later once the smithies had begun forming some of the panels for the gate itself.  Gimli was overseeing the task, but he couldn’t seem to resist working in the forges himself, which meant that Legolas was forced to be there as well. .  At first he feared it would be as it had been interviewing the crew, and he would have nothing to do but be conspicuously in the way, but Gimli had asked him to work the bellows for him, and then had taken the time to teach him how to heat and shape the metal and work it into an ornate design.  In spite of the heat of the forge, he had actually enjoyed forming the beautiful metal into ornate designs.   
  
Gimli, had even complimented him on his quick learning and on his artistic eye, and had asked if he would like to take part in  carving the final details into the completed structure along with the other artist who had been hired for the task.    
  
“Do I even have a choice?”  was the elf’s sardonic grumble, though he was secretly pleased with the praise from his guardian.  
  
“Of course you have a choice,” Gimli had replied. “The final artwork will not be added until the end of the project, which will be weeks from now.  By then, if you behave, which I know you will, you will be free to do whatever you like. Within reason of course.”  
  
Leoglas had only sighed in response, for the two of them seldom agreed on what was “within reason” for him to do, but it cheered him up a little  that Gimli was at least talking about an end to his close confinement, for which he had not yet been given an end date. Besides, he thought he would very much like to work on adding the finishing touches to the main gate, if it was his own choice to do so.  
  
“I’d be happy to help if I am able,” he said, a little wistfully. Gimli frowned and  gave him an oddly contemplative look making him wonder if his guardian was displeased with him again.  
  
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, making Gimli chuckle  
  
“Nay, Lamb, not a thing. It is just…ah never mind for now.  We will talk later.  For now we have a job to complete!”  
  
  
It wasn’t until much later that night that Legolas finally found out what it was that Gimli had been about to say.  The two of them had come in for the evening hot and dusty from a long day in the forges and Legolas had just finished a hot soak in the sunken tub in their quarters.  He took his time with it since the bathing chamber was the one and only exception to his constantly being within his guardian’s sight, and even then Gimli had only been just in the next room.   
  
Fortunately Gimli had been quite lenient and hadn’t complained when he spent far longer than strictly necessary there.   Had Legolas known all the facts of the matter, he might have been quite indignant, for the bald truth was that Gimli considered those times apart a blessing as well.  The dwarf had not really considered how hard it would be on himself to have his charge at his side constantly.  The constant sighing and groaning while he was attempting to draw out the plans for the gates had been trying to say the least as was the put upon expression during the interviews.  Still having made the decree he had to live with it or be seen as a pushover.  Promises needed to be kept even when they were unpleasant ones for order to exist between them, even though at first Gimli felt like he was being punished as much as his elfling was. Things had gotten better once the actual work had begun, and Gimli began to enjoy their time together.  But since Legolas had no idea his guardian felt so, and in fact assumed Gimli, and all parental figures,  got some kind of pleasure from spoiling his fun, so he felt fortunate to have the unquestioned extra time in the bath.    
  
He stayed until the water had gone tepid and then took his time towel drying his hair, and then finally came out to join his guardian, who happened to be sitting on the balcony watching the night sky.  Legolas was about to sit at his feet as per his usual habit, for he often chose the floor over furniture for sitting,  but when Gimli caught sight of him he moved over and patted the bench beside him, so Legolas settled in next to him, and then leaned into his side when Gimli put an arm around him.  For a while Gimli said nothing, but just stroked the elf’s drying hair, something that Legolas took a great deal of comfort in.  It was a tender action that Gimli never failed to perform, even when he was thoroughly put out with his charge, and it was soothing to know that no matter how much disgrace Legolas was in at any given moment, his guardian still had deep affection for him.  Legolas closed his eyes and leaned into the hand like a lanky blond cat, and was just beginning to drift off when Gimli’s voice interrupted.    
  
“I wanted to speak to you, lamb, before we turn in for the evening.”  
  
Automatically Legolas felt  a small flutter of nervousness in his gut, for even though Gimli did not seem upset, those words sounded a little dire. He hoped he hadn't  inadvertently offended his guardian.  Still it was better to find out right away.  
  
“Have I done something wrong?” he asked for the second time in one day, only this time Gimli did not laugh.  Instead he knit his brows together as if in concern.  
  
“Of course not!” he said,  “and their is no need to keep asking.  If you do something I do not approve of I will not keep you in the dark about it, but will tell you right away so you can avoid accidentally stumbling into trouble.   I am not continually examining your every word and action seeking to catch you making a mistake so I can punish you for it.   We are on the same side here, I promise.   You need to relax, my lad.”  
  
Legolas let out a relieved breath.    
  
“I will try,” he promised, and then added when Gimli seemed unconvinced, “I will, I swear!”    
  
“Good lad,” Gimli said. “See that you do. Now may I go on with what I wanted to say to begin with?”  
  
“Oh!  Yes, please,” Legolas said,  “what did you wish to talk about?”  
  
“It is just that I am concerned about you,” he raised a hand when Legolas tensed again, “not because you are doing anything wrong, but because you seem…well…not yourself.  Is anything wrong?  You are not unwell are you?”  
  
“I am perfectly fine,” Legolas said, “I have not enjoyed every single moment of our time together lately, but I am not meant to am I?”  
  
“Well, not exactly,” Gimli agreed.  “Staying within my sight is a fitting penalty considering your earlier actions proved you were were either not ready or not willing to follow rules set for your own welfare without being watched.  It is not meant to be fun!  Still I have tried not to keep you confined indoors or make it too difficult for you, and I assume you will not repeat your naughtiness, will you?”  
  
Blushing at the use of the word, Legolas shook his head.  
  
“Then you can be assured that your confinement will soon pass and then nothing more will need to be said about your past mistakes,” Gimli continued,  “You understand that do you not?”  
  
“I know, Elvellon.  I am not worried about that,” Legolas said, and he really meant it, for one thing he knew about his guardian was that he never held a grudge once he had had his say on a matter.    
  
“I only wanted you to seriously consider your past errors and how you can avoid them in future, I do not wish you to be overly upset or unhappy, and yet you seem rather out of sorts.  It makes me wonder if there was more to this little forbidden jaunt of yours than you have told me already.  I do understand that you wanted to surprise me with the pipeweed, but it seems like an awfully long chance you took for so little reward.  So tell me, Legolas, what were you really thinking?”  
  
Legolas thought about that for a moment, unsure if he could explain exactly what had been on his mind at the time, for he was hardly sure himself.  it wasn’t as if he had  spent weeks contemplating leaving  the city in order to find  pipe weed.  It had been an impulsive decision, made in a moment when he had just been enjoying the small freedom of being released from a torturously long meeting to play an impromptu game of netball with the young men of the White City.  Perhaps he had wanted that feeling of release and relief to continue a little longer before duty called him back to another monotonous task.  Thinking on it now he realized he had been feeling somewhat smothered by the  rules he was expected to follow, especially when it came to freedom of movement.  Logically he knew he was not being singled out for such treatment, for   Minas Tirith was a city that had been recently under siege and was still recovering from the brutalities of war.  Everyone had been cautioned to exercise care when leaving the city and to only do so for necessary purposes.   But the young elf did not always make decisions based on logic.  In truth he had been rather resentful of the strict limitations set  upon him. He had longed to do something new and exciting and to break free from what sometimes felt like a prison sentence.   
  
In fact, the feeling had not begun in Minas Tirith, but had started at home in Eryn Lasgalen where he had been kept on a very short leash after the war.    It had taken his father  a long session with multiple counselors that resulted in  a royal proclamation complete with a long list of stipulations before he was even allowed to be escorted by six experienced guards directly to his dwarven guardian in the White City.   
  
He should not have been surprised he knew, for he had broken a trust by going off on such a dangerous mission without leave from his father, for  he knew very well that had he asked, permission would have been succinctly denied.    But even knowing he had no right to complain had done little to remove his frustration, for he had gotten a taste of the outside world during his travels, and now he wanted to see more of it.   Even after how poorly things had turned on his clandestine jaunt to the Anduin and back, he still felt so.  Besides that he had felt the need to rest his eyes on something other than  endless white stone for a while.  He needed to feel a part of nature and to commune with green and growing things, even if they had been damaged by war.    
  
Yes it had likely been a variety of things that had lead him to convince Faramir to join him on their ill fated adventure, but could he explain any of them to Gimli and expect any sort of understanding?  One look at Gimli’s kind face and understanding eyes assured him that he could.  If only he could find the words.  
  
“I…that is…it is hard to explain,”  Legolas lamely offered.  But Gimli was gently insistent.  
  
“Try Lamb,” the dwarf encouraged him.  “You can tell me anything you know, and I will not interrupt you while you have your say.”  
  
It took some coaxing, for Legolas did not want Gimli to think he was some moody adolescent full of complaints about his lot in life, but eventually he was able to express how stifled he had been feeling since the war’s end.  True to his word, Gimli had let him talk himself out without commentary, only nodding from time to time to prove he was listening.  
  
“Of course, I should not complain,” Legolas ended, “not when others are suffering so much from the affects of war.  But you asked and …”  
  
Not knowing what else to say, Legolas simply shrugged and sighed, wishing he could explain better what he meant.  Gimli didn’t seem to need further explanation, though, for his expression was thoroughly sympathetic and thoughtful.    
  
“The suffering of others does not make your concerns invalid,”  Gimli pointed out,  “though I wish you had told me sooner.  Had you just confided in me to begin with you would have saved yourself heaps of trouble.  Did you not think I would do my best to help you?”  
  
Legolas shrugged again.  
  
“I know you would have tried, but you still would have prevented me leaving the city with Faramir.”  
  
“If you mean I would have prevented you being accosted by drunks and attacked by bandits and then almost  being buried alive in a half caved in tunnel, then yes you are correct.  What you did was dangerous and foolish!”  Here Gimli lifted his elfling’s chin so that he had to look into the dwarf’s concerned ebony eyes. “But I would have done what I could to help you.  I want you to enjoy your time here in the city and to get to explore it thoroughly, just in a safe manner. There is only one small section  of the city you were meant to avoid completely. Anything else you wanted to do would have been fine with me,  as long as you informed me where you were going and didn’t go off alone.   Even a trip outside to the River could have been arranged if you had let me know that was what you wanted. It is not my goal to spoil  your fun, but I cannot be expected to read your mind.  You have to speak up, Lad.”

  
“I am sorry, Gimli, I…” Legolas began, but a little shake of his chin stopped him finishing the thought.  
  
“Do not apologize again, Legolas.  You have done so already, and I believed you meant it then.  I do not want you to be sorry.  I want you to tell me what you need, even if you think I won’t understand.  I may not, but I promise to at least try to.  Is that plain?”  
  
“Yes, Elvellon, it is plain and I will do my best.  I am not sure I deserve your forbearance.  I could not ask for a more understanding guardian.”  
  
“Ah well, enough of that,” Gimli said, and Legolas was certain he was blushing a bit under his beard.  “As long as we understand one another, that is good enough for me.  Now off to bed with you.  We have a long, busy day planned again tomorrow.”  
  
Only the next day hadn’t been so long after all, for Gimli spent the morning organizing the work at the gates and then left his first foreman in charge and took the rest of the day off to spend it exploring the shops that had been recently reopened on the third level.  All the new storefronts and fresh paint, along with the excitement of the merchants who were able to get back to business gave that part of the city a festival atmosphere.  Between the newly decorated shops, food hawkers sold their wares and the dwarf insisted on trying everything from the savory meat pies to the sugar floss and spiced cider.  Once Legolas pointed out that Gimli had work he must want to be doing, but he was promptly told to hold his impertinent tongue.    


“I will do what I wish with my time, young elf, and it is not your place to say what I need to be doing!  You will join me or pay the consequences.  You have not yet been freed from my side, so stay close or else.”  
  
Legolas had laughed at that, for Gimli was paying for and handing him some sort of human concoction that was made of deep fried bread dough covered in cinnamon and sugar.  It was still hot from the grease, and very pleasant to taste, a far nicer way to spend the day than watching his guardian draw sketches for walls and gates.    
  
Another half day had the two of them spending the afternoon together  joining some security sweeps of the area outside the city. Nothing of interest had been found, but it was wonderful to be out riding in the open air and enjoying the recovering land.    
  
Some evenings had been spent with Gimli watching him take part in wrestling training with Faramir.  Aragorn and decided Faramir could benefit from such training considering the trouble they’d had fending off the huge men at the Shades. He believed Faramir needed to learn more about close contact defense.  Gimli had given Legolas the option of joining in as well, and  Legolas had decided to do so, partly because he enjoyed the athletic nature of it, and  partly because he wished to spend some time with his friend, who hehadn’t really seen too much of since their adventure with the pipe weed.  They had shared a few evening meals with him, Aragorn and Arwen, but the wrestling lessons were a chance to blow of some steam as well as see Faramir.  He hadn’t really thought he could learn much from the human trainers, but surprisingly they had manygood tips on how to use his opponents’ weight against them by diving for their feet or knees, and how to strike under the nose, at the temple, throat or finger tips to bring down even a much stronger attacker.    
  
Legolas knew that Gimli was taking time from his own schedule to do these things just to make his punishment less arduous, though he couldn’t quite puzzle out the reason why.  A punishment was not meant to be pleasant, and  yet his guardian had gone out of his way to soften his without retracting it completely.    
  
What he did not know was that Gimli, having discovered the real reason behind his charge’s earlier disobedience, meant to keep him busy and happy as possible.  It would do no good to go through with a long drawn out punishment if the elfling ended up feeling more stifled than ever and went off on another frustrated jag the minute he was set free.  The goal was to keep the youngster safe and out of trouble, not to harshly penalize  him.  All that would accomplish is to make the lad resent him and be even less likely to confide his troubles in the future, which did no one any good at all.  Gimli’s mother, who Gimli had gone to for advice on occasion,  had told him that there was no such thing as being too understanding when it came dealing with adolescents, who were actually more delicate in some ways than newborns.  Part of his job was to keep his young charge safe, aye, but another part was to make sure he was happy. The lad deserved it after all he had been through for the majority of his  youth.    It took some time out of Gimli’s  busy schedule to do so, but he took his duty very seriously and did not resent the interruption.   
  
In fact one evening he had timed their evening walk to coincide with when he suspected that Faramir and Aragorn would be coming home from visiting the families of one of the lost Rangers.  He knew  that Legolas had been missing the time he usually got to spend with the young man so decided it would do them good to spend a little time together outside of the wrestling matches.  He was very glad he had done so for another reason, for poor Faramir , when they saw him, had looked completely stricken, even though Aragorn walked next to him with  a comforting arm around his shoulders, while a few guards trailed behind them.  But Faramir’s face had lit up at the sight of his erstwhile partner in  crime, and soon they were talking and laughing together as they walked back up through the levels of the city.  Faramir had managed to talk the King into foregoing the usual evening meal with his wife in favor of trying one of the inns that had just reopened for business.  It had been Faramir’s favorite before the the war had shut it down.  Fish and chips was the only thing on the menu, but having one specialty evidently meant the cook had perfected the dish, for all four of them ate with considerable gusto and then chased the meal with a pint of very nice ale.    Gimli felt it was well worth the extra effort it took make sure his lad got to enjoy these little experiences, even if he had to do so within Gimli’s sight for a while in order for the dwarf  to technically carry out his word.    
  
  
Whether her understood the reasons for it or not, Legolas appreciated the kindness, and it had been like a spoonful of sugar to help swallow bitter medicine.  Still it was even better to be free from any sort of penalty at all and he was very much enjoying his day alone.  
  
He had volunteered to design the gardens of Minas Tirith and had sent for a small company of elves to help with the project.  They had not yet arrived, but that had not stopped him from doing what he could with a few human volunteers.  Human volunteers who were currently working far enough away that he felt truly independent, though he was not technically alone which should satisfy Gimli’s over protective sanctions.  His guardian insisted that he not wander the city alone, for there were, according to Gimli, some rough characters about who might be dangerous in their desperation after the war and many who may not be in their right minds.  Legolas stood out in this human city and there were those who were up in arms over Aragorn’s choice for a queen, which made it possibly that some might take their anger out on him just because of his pointy ears.  And it was true enough that there had been some snide comments made when he entered a room or passed a crowd, though Legolas had not ever felt in any particular danger.  His feeling safe, however, did nothing to ease his guardian’s worry, so it was easier just to comply rather than try to argue.  Arguing only ever ended with a stinging rump and a disgruntled guardian stuck to his side, so he had learned to  follow the path of least resistance and always have someone at least nearby who he could claim to be with him.    
  
He wasn’t sure Gimli would agree that the humans, who were within calling distance, but not in sight were actual companions, but it did not matter for long, because it was only half an hour or so before he was joined by someone else.  Legolas was so involved in digging up weeds that he never heard the other person come upon him, and only looked up when a shadow fell over him.    
  
“Need some help?”  Faramir asked, a severe frown marring his fair features.  It was a surprise to see Faramir out of his office this time of day, and more of a surprise to see him without the serene expression he usually wore.  
  
“If you like,”  Legolas agreed, offering his friend a trowel and a small rake.  He hadn’t wanted company, but Faramir was an exception.  His friend was not likely to give the impression that he needed watching or protecting and from the mood he seemed to be in in, he wasn’t likely to bombard him with chatter either.  In fact he couldn’t really imagine what had brought Faramir outside when he should be working, as he was normally very diligent about his duties,  but Legolas wasn't  sure it was a good idea to ask just at the moment.    
  
“I had no idea you liked gardening,” Legolas lightly commented, trying to gauge Faramir’s mood.  
  
“I’m not particularly fond of it, but I could use some physical exercise,” Faramir explained, rather dourly.  
  
“It’s not much exercise,” Legolas pointed out.  “I”m only pulling weeds.”  
  
  
“Whatever.” Faramir shrugged.   “Just show me how to do it.”  
  
“How to pull weeds?” Legolas gave him an odd look.  Who didn’t know how to pull weeds? “You pull them up and put them in a pile.  It’s pretty self explanatory, Faramir.”  
  
Faramir didn’t answer, but he simply fell to his knees and began yanking viciously and hurling the pulled weeds into the pile with unnecessary force.  Legolas watched him for a while, and finally ventured to ask,  
  
“Is anything wrong Faramir?”  
  
“Bad day,” Faramir growled, but gave no further explanation, but Legolas was not quite prepared to settle for that answer.   
  
“What happened?”  
  
“It’s a long boring story, Legolas,” Faramir snapped, as he continued his murderous rampage on the poor dandelions.  Without looking up he added, “Herion, please tell Aragorn I will be helping Legolas for the rest of the day.”  
  
For the first time, Legolas noticed Herion, Faramir’s squire, standing a little way off as if he was not too keen to come close.  He seemed almost relieved to be sent away. He exchanged a look with Legolas, and then nodded and hurried away.    
  
Legolas went back to work, occasionally glancing sideways at his crotchety, friend trying to figure out what could possibly have happened to have the normally even-tempered young man so irritated.  He was just trying to form another question when Faramir suddenly stretched out his bent back and then tossed aside his  tunic and pulled his undershirt over his head as well.  Legolas found himself staring at his friend in shock.

  
  
“It’s hot,” Faramir explained, but it was not the fact that he had removed his shirt that had stunned the elf, but the dark bruises in the clear shape of a handprint that encircled his upper arm.   Tossing his own trowel aside, he grabbed his friend by the wrist to stop his movement and examined the arm.  
  
“Who did this to you?” Legolas demanded.    
  
When Faramir didn't answer right away, Legolas repeated his question.  
  
“I can see it is a hand print, Faramir. Who did it?”  
  
Faramir sighed.  
  
“It was Lord Tarsten of Lebennin,” Faramir admitted.   
  
“That beady-eyed fellow, with the pointed nose? Why would he do that to you?”  
  
“That’s the one.  He was not best pleased that I refused to join him and some others in petitioning for Aragorn to raise the tariff on goods from Harad.”  
  
“So he thought injuring  you would make you change your mind?”  
  
“Not exactly,” Faramir said.  “I explained why I could not do what he wanted, he got angry and grabbed my arms and shook me in his rage.  It was not that big a deal.”  
  
“What do you mean not a big deal?” Legolas demanded.  “Of course it’s a big deal!  He had no right to lay a hand on you!  You shouldn’t have to deal with physical abuse during political discussions.  Just having to look at his ugly face and listening to his whiny voice is grueling enough.  You should tell Aragorn.”  
  
With that Legolas began packing away his tools, intent on going straight to the King.  Faramir had different ideas, and yanked the trowel back out of his friend’s hand.  
  
“We are not bothering Aragorn with such a trivial matter.  He has too many more important things to deal with, ” he said.  “Besides there is a lot of weeding to do.”  
  
  
“Bugger the weeding!”  Legolas was livid, and insistent, but he could see by Faramir’s expression that this was one of those times his friend was going to be impossibly stubborn.  He changed tactics.    
  
“If you won’t tell Aragorn, then let’s at least go talk to Gimli and see what he has to say.”  
  
“Gimli is also busy.”  
  
“True, but it’s nearly dark, and I happen to know he will be heading back to our quarters about now, and all he intends to do this evening is enjoy a meal in our rooms and drink a mug or two of ale.  He says he is too tired after a day in the hot sun to dress up and  join Aragorn and Arwen for dinner.  He will be pleased to see you.”  
  
“If he is tired, then I should not bother him…” Faramir attempted, but Legolas was stubborn too.  
  
“He will be happy to see you, Faramir, and he is never too busy for the concerns of a friend.”  
  
“But I am not that concerned,” Faramir pointed out.  
  
Legolas grasped Faramir firmly by the wrist, confiscated his trowel and then pulled him to his feet.    
  
“You may not be concerned, but I am. Now come on!”


	2. Faramir's pov

Faramir gave in with a sigh, but then pulled back hard enough to make Legolas stop short. 

 

“Faramir . . .” 

 

“Relax, will you?” Faramir said, his sense of humor suddenly tickled by his friend’s protectiveness, despite his otherwise dark mood, “I’ll come and speak to Gimli with you, I promise. But I’d like to put my shirt and tunic back on first.” 

 

Legolas blushed and let go of Faramir’s arm. 

 

The thought of the picture that they’d make if they were to parade through the halls with him half-dressed was enough to make Faramir chuckle as he picked up his shirt, and tease Legolas, “Unless, of course, you want to start spreading the type of rumors there are about you and Aragorn about you and me?” 

 

“Of course not,” Legolas began, then he tilted his head curiously, “Wait, what rumors?” 

 

“Never mind,” said Faramir firmly. If Legolas didn’t already know about the lurid male romantic fantasies that some of the more fanciful young women and not-so-young women of Minas Tirith had concocted about their new King and the handsome elven youth, then Faramir didn’t think he was the appropriate one to explain. Let Gimli or Aragorn or even the Elrondionnath take on that task. 

 

Hmm, given Aragorn’s sometimes-questionable sense of humor, perhaps Gimli would be the best bet? Should Faramir try to talk to him about it when Legolas wasn’t around? Mostly those rumors seemed to be confined to the realm of harmless female fantasy, but Faramir had heard darker versions mumbled sometimes by men, who mostly went silent when Faramir appeared. The Steward was well-known to be the King’s man, and only the most bold of folk were apt to bring up off-color criticisms of Aragorn around Faramir. 

 

Distracted now, Legolas asked again, “What rumors, Faramir?” 

 

“I thought that you wanted to take me to talk to Gimli, because you’re concerned?” Faramir asked in earnest reply. 

 

Legolas glowered at him, but then gave in and nodded in the direction of the King’s House. The two youths were silent as they walked up to the seventh level and through the Citadel together. Whether Legolas was thinking of his concerns over Lord Tarsten manhandling Faramir or over what rumors Faramir had been talking about, Faramir did not know. Faramir’s own thoughts were not of Lord Tarsten. 

 

Lord Tarsten was a cowardly, greedy, pig, but he wasn’t Faramir’s biggest concern at the moment. It wasn’t the first time that Faramir had been man-handled. And he’d never been truly afraid for his safety, not with Tarsten unarmed, and known to be not much of a swordsman.And not with Beregrond and Halvor both standing guard outside of Faramir’s office. 

 

What was more worrying to Faramir was the ongoing controversy about his wardship. Or more specifically, that said controversy had convinced Chief Archivist Arradon that the time had now come to inform the King that he had an illegitimate son in Faramir. 

 

Faramir himself was vehemently against this plan. He had in fact just come from arguing with Arradon in the archives when he ran into Legolas in the Archive gardens. Taking out his frustrations on a bunch of innocent weeds had seemed like a far better idea to Faramir than taking his black mood back to his office with him. Eru only knows what Faramir would have ended up writing in response to a poorly thought-out petition, or worse, what he might have actually said to any irritating person who came to speak to him! 

 

He’d even snapped at Herion when his friend and squire asked if all was well with Faramir, after Herion had apparently overheard at least the raised voices between Faramir and Chief Archivist Arradon. Sweet Valar, Faramir hoped that Herion hadn’t been able to actually hear what they’d been saying clearly! 

 

If only certain Lords of Gondor hadn’t decided to raise a fuss about Faramir’s guardianship!After Faramir’s and Legolas’ unfortunate adventure in search of pipeweed, Aragorn and Arwen had assumed the position of Faramir’s temporary guardians, having decided that Faramir required more in the way of looking out for than his Uncle Imrahil could provide, given that worthy’s frequent travels. 

 

Imrahil had initially been inclined to maintain his guardianship over his nephew. But then seeing Faramir’s fondness for Aragorn and Arwen, and knowing that the King and Queen would be in a better position to oversee the well-being of his only surviving nephew, Imrahil had conceded to their wishes. 

 

Faramir had been truly happy with that result. He felt surprisingly comfortable with Aragorn and Arwen, even at home with them. Aragorn was fast becoming as dear to Faramir as Boromir once had been, and Arwen sometimes reminded Faramir of a younger, more tolerant version of Faramir’s beloved former governess, Lindorie of Lamedon. 

 

However, many of the lords and powerful of Gondor were NOT happy with the King and Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms taking the Steward of Gondor as their especial ward. Some of the lords of Gondor had raised vehement objections. That number included, unsurprisingly, Lord Tarsten.But it also included Lord Andasond of the Stonewain Valley, the merchant Lord Sendar of the Ciril Vale, and even Lord Angbor of Lamedon, who was normally very loyal to their new King. The feeling amongst such lords was that Aragorn becoming Faramir’s guardian was tantamount to Gondor itself being suborned by the more rural and ‘primitive’ Arnor. They pointed to Faramir’s frequent political support of the King as evidence that Aragorn was trying to supplant Faramir’s will with his own. 

 

This frustrated Faramir greatly. After all, he was very much his own person! And he did disagree with Aragorn at times. He just tried to do so in private, at least the first time such differences of view arose. He’d spoken against the King’s stated position in Council before, after giving Aragorn forewarning that he intended to do so if he could. Aragorn was not a tyrant who refused to listen to dissenting views, even dissenting views from his normally supportive Steward. 

 

Aragorn had listened patiently to his lords’ objections to his and his Queen’s assumption of Faramir’s guardianship. Then he’d thanked them for their opinions, and ended the Council session. 

 

Afterward, Aragorn had immediately explained to Faramir alone that, “The only opinion which truly matters here is yours, Faramir. And I think that you have been content to dwell here with Arwen and with me, and to heed our guidance.” 

 

“Of course I have!” Faramir had instantly agreed, his blue-gray eyes wide with dismay at the thought that Aragorn might believe otherwise, “But it’s not worth spending political capital over. I’ll still abide by your guidance, Sire, and Lady Arwen’s, no matter who is my official guardian.” 

 

“I appreciate that, Faramir. But the matter is closed. When your Uncle Imrahil returns to Minas Tirith at the end of the month, he’ll stand witness while Arwen and I swear our oaths to care for you and guide you before the High Priest of Eru and Chief Archivist Arradon. If the Council raises the matter again, I’ll overrule them.” 

 

“But. . .” 

 

“The matter is closed, Faramir.” 

 

“But you shouldn’t even have to overrule the Council lords,” Faramir spoke over Aragorn’s objection, braving the mild disapproval in the King’s blue-gray gaze, “The historical precedent was that wardships of noble children were the King’s to assign.” 

 

“It doesn’t matter, Faramir,” Aragorn told him more gently, “I appreciate the information, and if you wish to ask Chief Archivist Arradon to prepare a report to that effect in the event that the Council does raise the question again, you may do so. But the matter is settled, no matter what the Lords of Gondor do or do not want.” 

 

“Yes, Sire,” Faramir conceded, torn between awed pleasure at how determined Aragorn was to have Faramir as his ward, and worry over the political cost of the King taking that position. 

 

When Faramir went to speak with Chief Archivist Arradon just a few hours ago, the venerable old man had shared Faramir’s concern, but not Faramir’s planned solution to it. 

 

“The King shouldn’t have to fight the council over this, Faramir,” Chief Archivist Arradon had remonstrated kindly, “Not when there is a much more simple and elegant solution.” 

 

“Simple? And elegant?” Faramir had queried incredulously, “Admitting to Middle Earth at large that my dearly beloved mother the Lady Finduilas betrayed the old Steward Denethor and Isildur’s heir both at the once?And that the current Steward, whose authority is already questioned due to his unfortunate youth, is in fact not related whatsoever to the former Stewards of Gondor?” 

 

“Don’t be so dramatic, young man,” Arradon had scolded fondly, “We’ve been through this before. The position of Steward of Gondor now continues to exist by King Elessar’s grace, not by law. He could appoint whomever he chose to the position. And, due to the legal fiction that Boromir became Steward after Denethor, and the fact that you were Boromir’s heir at law, you are the proper heir to the position.”

 

“And I can only see a few dozen ways for the council to argue that,” Faramir said, both exasperated and sure of himself. 

 

“I would challenge you to come up with them, my dear student,” Arradon teased, “Save that I don’t want to encourage you in this.” 

 

“Please, Master Arradon,” Faramir beseeched, “Don’t tell Aragorn . . . the King. He is so happy, with Arwen his new wife. They have waited so long, and suffered through so much, to be together.I do not want this ugly deception from the past to come to light and ruin their new happiness.” 

 

“A man deserves to know that he has a child, Faramir,” Arradon said gently, but firmly. “I have never wavered from that position. I also loved your mother dearly. I respected her very much, despite her actions in respect of conceiving you. And her wish was that Thorongil – Aragorn – be told the truth, should he and you both survive the Enemy’s destruction.” 

 

“But you told me that you would wait until Aragorn – the King – had worn the winged crown for a year, before telling him!” Faramir protested in an agonized fashion. 

 

“I did, young man. And I must apologize for going back on my word. But, as you yourself have given me reason to know that you understand, the newly returned King your father walks a narrow line in ruling his new kingdom. The more rarely he must use the royal veto to overrule his council, the better it will be for all of us.” 

 

“Not for ‘all of us,’” Faramir shot back bitterly, “It’s not better for me, or for him!” 

 

“Faramir,” the venerable old man began soothingly, “the King is clearly very fond of you. I think that he will respond much more happily than you seem to believe to the knowledge that he sired you.” 

 

“You think, you think,” Faramir mocked in an aggrieved tone, “Why does it even matter what you think?!? It should only matter what I think! And I think that I don’t want to risk ruining the friendship I’ve begun with Aragorn over something THAT DOES NOT MATTER!” 

 

“Calm yourself, young man!” Arradon said firmly.He then continued in a more measured tone., “It does matter what you think, my dear Faramir. But the King is your father, and it matters more what he thinks. He is older than you are, and in a better position to judge what is best for you both.” 

 

“Lord Denethor was older than me, too,” Faramir said angrily, “Should I have asked him what he thought about my being a bastard? What about Lord Tarsten? Or slimy Lord Morcocano? Or Guild Master Burgold? They’re all older than me. Maybe we should ask them!” 

 

“I wouldn’t ask them about the weather,” Arradon retorted wryly, “And I think that you know that.” 

 

More sternly, the venerable old archivist told Faramir, “My mind is made up, my dear prince and student. You have until the end of the week to tell Lord Aragorn the truth on your own, should you wish to. I am going to send him a message to arrange a meeting for First Day next. If you wish to be present, let me know.” 

 

“I think that I’m going to try to be in Ithilien by then!” Faramir snapped, “No thanks to you!” 

 

“Faramir . . .” Arradon chastised wearily, stepping forward and lifting a hand as if to place it on Faramir’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him. 

 

Faramir stepped back out of reach, all the while glaring at Arradon, “You’ve always been a friend to me, Master Arradon. I don’t see why you’re doing your best to ruin my life now, when I’m finally happy most of the time!” 

 

“Faramir, sit down. Let’s speak of this further. I don’t want you to leave me while you’re this upset.” 

 

“Don’t worry yourself,” Faramir all but snarled, “I likely won’t be Aragorn’s Steward or ward after First Day, so you’ve no need to appease me!” 

 

“That will be quite enough of that, young man!” Arradon finally snapped, “Now come back here and sit down, right now!” 

 

Faramir didn’t. Instead he turned on his heel and left the room, calling back over his shoulder, “Have a good day, Master Chief Archivist!” Then he slammed the door. Hard. 

 

Even the memory of his confrontation with Arradon made Faramir both desperately tense and afraid. Not to mention ashamed. Faramir winced internally to have spoken so to the hard-working and learned chief archivist who had always been so kind to Faramir.

 

But the mere thought of losing Aragorn’s friendship and affection was terrifying to Faramir. So terrifying, that he really did think it a good idea to arrange to be away from the city come next First Day. Anything, to put off that confrontation and give the King a chance to calm down, and decide how he wanted to deal with the information without also having to deal with Faramir. 

 

“Legolas?” Faramir inquired worriedly. 

 

“Don’t worry, Faramir. I’m sure that Gimli will be pleased to see you,” Legolas reassured him. 

 

“Oh . . . um, thank you. But I was actually wondering if you would like to go explore Ithilien soon. Maybe as soon as this Seventh Day?” 

 

Legolas looked at Faramir as if Faramir were insane, “Gimli has only just begun to allow me out of sight while I’m in the Citadel complex working on the gardens. And you expect him to let me go to Ithilien!?” 

 

“Gimli could come, too,” Faramir offered. Aragorn might even agree to that, the Steward thought hopefully. 

 

“It’s a nice thought, Faramir,” Legolas said wistfully, “But dwarves are very dutiful, Gimli especially so, and he’s not going to be willing to leave the City until the gates are finished. Or as finished as they can be until his people get back to the city with more of the required materials.” 

 

“Oh,” said Faramir, no small amount disappointed. He wondered if he should even bother to ask Aragorn about going to Ithilien? It might be better to beg forgiveness than permission, in this case. And Faramir had been very dutiful about letting Aragorn know where he was and always taking someone with him when he went outside of the Citadel since Aragorn had first asked him for those considerations after the pipe weed incident. Surely Aragorn wouldn’t expect Faramir to take off, which could provide the opportunity to do so. 

 

Speaking of which. . . 

 

As they approached the King’s House, Faramir greeted the two King’s Guards stationed at the front entrance. 

 

“Good evening, Lannor, Brithadan. Could one of you please send word to his Grace that I will be stopping by Lord Gimli and Prince Legolas’ quarters before dinner, and that I may be somewhat late?” 

 

“Of course, your highness,” Brithadan, the more formal of the two guards, agreed, while Lannor looked on curiously. 

 

“Please convey my apologies for my probable tardiness as well,” Faramir added, before following Legolas in the direction of the apartments the elf shared with the dwarf on the northeastern side of the King’s House. Faramir’s own current rooms were in the southwest section, adjoining the King’s and Queen’s apartments. 

 

Legolas and Gimli’s rooms looked out onto the forested slopes of Mount Mindolluin. They found Gimli smoking his pipe peacefully on the balcony, staring out at the peaceful trees. He turned when he heard them enter, and smiled to see Legolas. His smile didn’t falter upon seeing Faramir enter in Legolas’ company, but he did look somewhat curious. 

 

“Good evening, my Lad. And Faramir, what a pleasant surprise,” Gimli greeted them, “Why don’t you both join me? I know that my lad prefers cider, but we have ale as well, if that appeals. I doubt that Aragorn would mind if you had a small cup.” 

 

Faramir took the offered seat on the balcony but politely declined the offer of a drink. 

 

“Gimli,” Legolas began almost immediately, “Faramir has a problem.” 

 

“Legolas, really . . .” Faramir objected, blushing. 

 

“Now, now, lamb, let your friend speak for himself,” Gimli chided mildly. 

 

Legolas snorted in response to that, and complained, “If I were to let him explain for himself, he likely wouldn’t be here at all!” 

 

“It’s not a great matter, Legolas,” Faramir said soothingly, “Lord Tarsten merely lost his temper and shook me. I sincerely doubt he was trying to hurt me.” 

 

Gimli’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but it was Legolas who protested first, “Faramir, that man is as old as a goat and as fat as a pig. I doubt that he could have bruised you so darkly had he not been giving his full effort to it!” 

 

“What happened, exactly?” Gimli asked. He appeared calm, but Faramir noticed that he was clenching the fist which wasn’t holding his pipe as if he might like to hit someone with it. 

 

Faramir gave an aggravated sigh, then repeated the same explanation he’d given to Legolas earlier. Rather to his exasperation if not entirely to his surprise, Gimli agreed with Legolas. 

 

“Aye, lad, my elfling has the right of this,” Gimli said kindly, “You need to tell Aragorn.” 

 

Faramir flushed in embarrassment, “If I go complaining to my King every time someone gives me a bruise, I’ll have turned into exactly the type of coward Lord Denethor accused me of being.” 

 

Legolas made a rude noise, and then used a rude Sindarin phrase to describe Lord Denethor. 

 

“Lamb, I don’t what that means, but I doubt that it’s language a well-brought up young elf should be using,” Gimli scolded, “But I can’t say as I disagree with the spirit of your comment, either,” he added, softening the scold. Then Gimli turned his attention to Faramir. 

 

“Faramir, my friend,” Gimli explained with a kind expression on his sturdy features, “it seems to me that Lord Denethor hardly knew you. Your brother knew you far better, and all I’ve seen of you inclines me to think that he saw you truly. He called you brave and noble, which I would agree that you are, but he also described you as being too inclined to keep your own counsel. Which I think that you are, as well, at least in this instance. After all, what if this ass of a lord – shut it, elfling, I only meant that he’s a donkey – what if he were to treat someone else this way? Someone less capable of defending himself, such as a squire or a servant?” 

 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Faramir admitted pensively, “And I should have.”

 

“You can’t think of everything,” Gimli excused him, “But you should tell Aragorn about it. He won’t think you weak for it, lad, you need have no worry of that. And I’m sure that he’ll be able to sort out what to do.” 

 

“But I don’t want him to go to Lord Tarsten and rebuke him,” Faramir said, concerned, “It might be better if I were to tell Tarsten myself, man to man, that he needs to be more careful with his strength.” 

 

“You should tell your guardian, lad,” Gimli said almost immediately, “You shouldn’t have to deal with that type of abuse. Let Aragorn know, and let him handle it.” 

 

“But I don’t need him to handle it,” Faramir disagreed, “And I think it would be better for my relationships with the Lords of Gondor if I manage this type of thing myself, rather than getting Aragorn involved.” 

 

“And if it were Legolas being harmed by one of my dwarven kin?” Gimli asked, his black eyes intent, “Would you expect him to deal with it by himself?” 

 

“Of course not,” Faramir replied, “But the situations aren’t at all similar. Legolas is present as your guest, dwarven-kin by grace of his relationship to you, but in truth also a guest. He shouldn’t have to deal with that. But the Lords of Gondor are my people, however unhappy that makes me in certain instances. I need them to continue to respect me, and they won’t, not if I go to Aragorn every time I get a skinned knee.” 

 

“A skinned knee!” Legolas exclaimed in outrage. “Faramir, that’s ridiculous. Show Gimli your arm.” 

 

Faramir glared at his friend, but at that point he realized that it would make the injury seem worse than it was if he didn’t let Gimli see it. With a sigh, he pulled up the sleeve of the light blue silk long-sleeved shirt he wore under his sleeveless black tunic. 

 

Gimli’s fist tightened again as he glanced over the dark blue-black bruises clearly in the shape of a handprint. 

 

“Legolas is right, Faramir,” the dwarf said, his tone still patient and kind, “That bruise is going to make your morning training sessions more painful than they need to be, at the least. Aragorn should know as your healer, and as the man who is overseeing your training. And as the King of Gondor, he should know when one of his Lords commits physical assault during what should have been a peaceable discussion.” 

 

Faramir couldn’t argue with that last. With a sigh that was almost a groan, he gave his friends a nod of concession. Then he sat down and poured himself a full mug of ale. He sensed Gimli and Legolas exchanging questioning, worried glances over his head, but he couldn’t be bothered to reassure them. 

 

“I’ll tell Aragorn,” Faramir reassured them, after he’d drained half the mug of ale. “Tonight, after dinner. No need to ruin the meal.” 

 

“Fine enough,” Gimli agreed, returning to his pipe. “And I think we’ll join you for that dinner, if Legolas feels up to it. I have more energy than I thought I would have today, and it will be nice to update Aragorn on our progress in person.” 

 

“Mmm,” Faramir murmured noncommittally. He knew that Aragorn was extremely grateful for Gimli’s work on the gate and his and his people’s many contributions. But he also knew that Aragorn, rather like Legolas, was rather tired of hearing about it. Unlike Legolas, Aragorn was also fairly proficient at hiding when he was bored. 

 

Legolas had no objection, so the three of them proceeded to Aragorn and Arwen’s private dining room after Gimli had finished his pipe, and Faramir had finished his first ale and half of another. He didn’t usually drink so much, but he also didn’t usually shout abuse at one of his favorite mentors, or have even contentious discussions with Lord of Gondor turn into something that had to be disclosed to his King and guardian. 

 

Another unpleasant surprise awaited Faramir there. He’d expected to find just Aragorn and Arwen present. But instead, he, Legolas, and Gimli found themselves joining what seemed like a miniature reunion of folk Faramir thought of as ‘crusty old rangers of Arnor,’ most of whom now numbered amongst Aragorn’s royal guards.Also present was a man of about Aragorn’s age whom Faramir did not know, and thought likely to be yet another crusty old ranger from Arnor, as well as one of the youngest of the royal guards, Lannor Megorchil, and Aragorn’s junior spymaster, Lord Dervorin of the Ringlo Vale.

 

“Ah, there you are, my fine young man!” Aragorn greeted Faramir with a smile in his blue-gray eyes, “And Legolas and Gimli as well! You are most welcome, my brothers.” 

 

“My apologies for not sending word ahead that we would attend, Aragorn,” Gimli said to the King, not giving away by word or expression that he’d rather be alone with Legolas in their peaceful rooms, dining quietly tonight. Faramir was impressed. He felt a little badly for Gimli, since he was fairly sure that the dwarf’s reason for changing his mind about coming to dinner was to give Faramir moral support in telling Aragorn about Lord Tarsten’s misstep. Well, either that or to make sure Faramir actually did as he had promised and told the King, in which case, Gimli deserved his discomfort, in Faramir’s opinion. But he’d give Gimli the benefit of the doubt, and stay sympathetic. 

 

Legolas, meanwhile, was surveying at the crusty old rangers closely. After a moment, he broke into a hesitant smile, and said to one of them, “Megor! Can it be? It has been decades since we last met on one of my visits to Imladris!” 

 

“It has, indeed! Well-met, Prince Legolas!” greeted the dark-haired man who looked somewhat like Aragorn. 

 

“Faramir, Gimli,” said Aragorn, “Please be known to my second cousin, Megor Balrantchil of Arnor. He is our Lannor’s father.”

 

Gimli nodded warmly to the ranger who had greeted Legolas in such a pleased fashion.Faramir followed suit, trying not to let the sharpness of his interest show. If Lannor was Megor’s son, then Megor’s father, Balrant, who had sadly passed away fighting in the North long ago, had been Aragorn’s first cousin, the son of Doldaer, Aragorn’s mother Gilraen’s much older brother. Which meant that Megor was Aragorn’s first cousin once removed, and therefore Faramir’s second cousin. And that Lannor himself was Faramir’s second cousin of one remove. 

 

“Megor, Legolas and I spent time hunting and carousing together when Megor and I visited the Greenwood not long after I became Chieftain,” Aragorn explained, “And Megor thought it was time to visit me in Minas Tirith in person, the better for him to continue avoiding my attempts to ennoble him.” 

 

“He’s relentless,” the still-smiling Megor cheerfully complained to Legolas of Aragorn. 

 

“We do need more lords of Arnor,” Faramir pointed out, both because it was true, and to give Aragorn support which he apparently needed in this dispute. 

 

“Thank you, Faramir,” said Aragorn, who appeared grateful that someone was agreeing with him! 

 

“Magordan, Ethiron, Halrandir, and Orohael have already refused me,” Aragorn continued, “Thank the Valar that Bregolas was willing to take on the newly created princedom of Emyn Uial. Otherwise I would have had to continue denying accusations of making Arnor an entirely military state.” 

 

“Keeping track of you is enough work for the likes of me, Halrandir, and Orohael, my lad,” Magordan told Aragorn with a chuckle. Magordan was the Captain of Aragorn’s Royal Guards. Halrandir and Orohael were his two primary shift lieutenants. It was, in fact, rare to see them all together outside of planning sessions. Faramir had become fond of all three of them. He and Legolas both enjoyed seeing Magordan and Halrandir tease Aragorn the way that Aragorn sometimes teased Faramir. Orohael had been in charge of some of Faramir’s and Legolas’ wrestling lessons. Faramir had found him to be a very patient teacher, with a ready smile and an encouraging manner. 

 

“And I’m busy enough with trying to integrate the Northern Rangers and the various village militias from Arnor with the Army proper of Gondor,” Captain Ethiron complained. 

 

Faramir fought not to raise a skeptical eyebrow at the disingenuousness of that statement. Ethiron, as nearly all present knew, was in fact Aragorn’s Spy-master. The much younger Lord Dervorin, the heir to the Gondorian fiefdom of the Ringlo Vale, was Ethiron’s chief assistant and was apparently in charge of most of their sources of information amongst the Southrons. According to Dervorin, Ethiron had met the much younger Dervorin in Rhun many years ago, where Dervorin’s exiled father Morvirin had been trading slaves. Dervorin had helped Ethiron to rescue the villagers of Arnor whom his father had been transporting in chains, and Ethiron had convinced Dervorin to join the Northern Rangers, and work as his assistant. 

 

Dervorin had returned to Gondor for the first time since he was a child with the Northern Rangers who had ridden to meet Aragorn with Elrohir and Elladan Elrondion before the Battle of the Pelennor. The childless Lord Tyorvond, Dervorin’s uncle and the current Lord of the Ringlo Vale, had been pleased to meet his long-lost Ranger nephew, and had quickly made the young man his heir. Faramir would already have been predisposed to think well of someone who was related to Lord Tyorvond, who had always been kind to Boromir and Faramir. But Faramir had actually met Dervorin the year before the Ring War, when Faramir and one of his fellow rangers, Madril, had been information gathering on the wrong side of the long border shared by northeastern Ithilien and southwestern Harad. 

 

Dervorin, then an unknown stranger pretending to be a half-Gondorian merchant in Harad, had helped them out of a tight spot, and had thereafter passed on intelligence about Haradric troop movements in and out of the region. Dervorin had also kept to himself just where and when he’d met Faramir, which Faramir very much appreciated. 

 

“You’re doing me a favor too by keeping quiet about our previous associations,” Dervorin had informed Faramir with a charmingly sly grin, “For if Captain Ethiron knew that I’d met the Lord Steward of Gondor’s second son and then let him keep traipsing back and forth over the Haradric border, he’d have me cleaning privies for a month.” 

 

“But you didn’t know who I was,” Faramir had pointed out fairly, “I wasn’t any different than any other ranger doing a poor job of pretending to be a Southron sell-sword.” 

 

“Not so bad as all that,” Dervorin corrected teasingly, “At least a mediocre impersonation, in your case. You’ve an ear for accents as well as a gift for languages, I think.” 

 

“Thank you?” 

 

“You’re welcome. But I had seen likenesses of you before we first met. Of you and your brother both, and most of the lords of Gondor. We were supposed to keep an eye out for you.” 

 

“And report whatever you’d found us doing,” said Faramir, with some disapproval. He wasn’t entirely sure whether he envied the Northerners their spy network, or thought it all to be a bit dishonest. He was sadly certain it was at least a little the former.

 

“Aye, that, but to keep you of trouble, too. Which in your case would have meant keeping you OUT of Harad entirely.” Dervorin eyed Faramir sternly, “I trust that won’t be an issue in the future.” 

 

“No,” Faramir assured him, “Boromir would have been furious if he’d ever found out. And now that I’m the Steward, it would be stupid to put myself in a situation like that. Besides, you and the people working with you are much better at intelligence gathering in the South than I’d ever be.” 

 

“Well, as you are the Steward, I don’t suppose that we’ll ever get a chance to find out,” Dervorin had said, seeming almost a bit wistful. Faramir took that as a complement. As he did Dervorin’s having warned him that at least one of either Dervorin’s or Ethiron’s men would almost always be following Faramir about when he was in the city. 

 

“But, why?” Faramir had asked at the time, which had been just after the King’s coronation. 

 

“Because you’ve made it clear that you’re the King’s man,” Dervorin had explained, his face unaccustomedly grave, “And we don’t want anything untoward to happen to you because of it.” 

 

“I doubt that anyone would actually attack me,” Faramir had said, skeptical of that claim. “The lords and powerful of Gondor may not all be happy about the return of the King, but most of that is just uncertainty. They’ll come around, and they’ve little to gain by getting rid of me.” 

 

“You’re likely right about that,” Dervorin allowed, “But I have my orders, and I’m going to follow them. I thought I’d let you know, just so that you understand that it isn’t mistrust of you that has us tailing you about.” 

 

Since Dervorin’s orders came from Ethiron, it was him whom Faramir actually had to thank for his shadows. Before the pipe weed incident, Faramir had occasionally amused himself during his errands in the city by taking himself and Herion, and his guards, if he had any, through back streets and on little-known short-cuts so that whoever was following them would be shaken off. Depending on which spymaster saw Faramir first after one of those occasions, he either got an amused grin from Dervorin and a friendly request to please show Dervorin on a map which path he’d taken, or a very patient look from Lord Ethiron and a less polite version of the same. 

 

Ethiron had also taken it upon himself to examine in minutiae Faramir’s and Legolas’ trip through the city and out to the Anduin in search of pipeweed, and then report back to Aragorn about every potential danger they had or could have possibly encountered. That had resulted in Aragorn sitting Faramir and Legolas down with Gimli also in attendance, and letting Ethiron explain those dangers which hadn’t been touched upon in that initial excruciating interview after the pipe weed incident. As if Faramir and Legolas weren’t bright enough to have figured them out by themselves! Faramir even thought that Ethiron had even scared Legolas with his dreadful explanation of what might have happened to them when they were assaulted in the Shades if the guards hadn’t intervened. Legolas was smart enough to understand what might have happened; Faramir saw no reason for Ethiron to have tormented him by recounting it. 

 

So, since then Faramir had been doing his best to subtly make Ethiron’s life more difficult.

 

In furtherance of that goal, Faramir thoughtfully suggested, “Actually, Captain Ethiron, Aragorn’s elevating you to the station of one of Arnor’s new lords would probably be a great help to you in integrating the two militaries. Rightly or wrongly, most of Gondor’s officers are still from noble families. It would put you on a more even footing with them.” 

 

Ethiron was giving Faramir a slightly dismayed look. Aragorn, Legolas, and even Gimli and Magordan were hiding smiles. 

 

Obliquely, since Ethiron had not flat-out called himself a spy, Faramir added, “And since I know how fond you are of the sea and meeting travelers from exotic lands, perhaps Aragorn could make your new fiefdom one of the coastal areas of Arnor?” 

 

Aragorn chuckled at that, and put in, “Faramir makes a very sound suggestion, Ethiron.” 

 

Ethiron didn’t seem to think so, based on the appalled expression on his face. 

 

Faramir, for his part, congratulated himself on a job well done. His good mood was even partially restored after all of the day’s travails, at least until Aragorn asked how his morning meeting with Lord Tarsten had gone. 

 

“He’d seemed enraged after your presentation yesterday on why it would be a mistake to raise the tariffs, despite the short-term benefit to Gondor’s treasury as well as that of his fiefdom,” Aragorn noted, his blue-gray eyes concerned and his expression sympathetic. 

 

Faramir felt Legolas’ and Gimli’s eyes upon him as he fumbled for an answer. “It, ah, didn’t go particularly well, Sir. In fact, may I speak to you in private?” 

 

Aragorn blinked in surprise, started to reply, and then paused to exchange a series of looks with Gimli. After a few moments, Aragorn said, “Of course, Faramir muin nin. Excuse us, gentlemen,” Aragorn said to his friends as he gestured Faramir down the hall towards his and Arwen’s private rooms. 

 

They were quiet during the short walk, although Faramir appreciated how Aragorn placed his hand supportively on Faramir’s upper back. He ushered Faramir into the sitting room he shared with Arwen, and then shut the door. 

 

“Now, young man, what is amiss?” the King asked. 

 

“Ah,” extemporized Faramir, who had really been hoping that Arwen would be here for this part. Aragorn could be somewhat overprotective at times, Faramir had learned. He wasn’t sure how the King was going to take this. 

 

“Is . . . is Lady Arwen here?” Faramir asked hopefully. 

 

“No,” said Aragorn, a hurt, lost expression flickering over his face momentarily, before he regained his normal calm, “She went with her brothers on some mysterious errand.” 

 

“I’m sorry, Aragorn,” said Faramir, his heart aching for his friend and secret father. Aragorn and Arwen were deeply in love with one another, and best friends besides. But Arwen had an almost four thousand year history with her brothers and their elven friends. Faramir had often thought that it must make it hard for her mortal husband to compete with that shared past. 

 

“That is kind of you, Faramir muin, but unnecessary,” Aragorn said with a fond and only slightly sad smile, “I do not begrudge my love her own friendship with her brothers. She will return when they are finished with whatever they’ve set out to do. Maybe they’ll even deign to inform me as to whatever it was,” he concluded, with some frustration bleeding into the fondness. 

 

“Boromir didn’t always tell me everything he got up to, either,” Faramir said sympathetically, “but he always came back after.” Until he didn’t, of course, but Faramir looked down instead of saying that. There was no need; he was sure that Aragorn had thought of it too. 

 

That guess proved to be correct as Aragorn placed a supportive hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

 

“There is no need to worry, Faramir,” he reassured the youth, “Arwen is formidable in and of herself. And not only her almost equally formidable brothers but also Glorfindel are with her. They will be fine, and they will return here when they have finished.”

 

Faramir looked up to meet Aragorn’s eyes and agreed, “No, I can’t imagine anyone getting the best of that group.” 

 

“Right you are,” said Aragorn, clapping Faramir on the shoulder again, “Now, what is it that you had wanted to tell me? Something about how excruciating our difficult Lord Tarsten made your morning? I do hope he isn’t planning to short-change the army on his levies again.” 

 

“Ah, no,” Faramir said, blushing now, “Or at least, he didn’t say that he was. I was explaining to him how it would be worse for Gondor in the long run to raise the tariffs and discourage trade, and that Harad would probably just raise their tariffs in retaliation. He, ah, lost his temper, and tried to shake me.” 

 

Aragorn’s eyebrows rose in surprise, “He . . . he laid his hands on you?” 

 

“He grabbed my left shoulder and shook me.” 

 

“Show me.” 

 

Faramir sighed, but obediently unbuttoned his shirt cuff and pushed his sleeve up again to reveal the hand-shaped bruise. 

 

Aragorn put one cool, calloused palm on Faramir’s elbow and tilted his ward’s arm so that he could see it better.

 

“I see,” the King said finally, appearing if he was struggling to keep himself calm. “Wait here for me for a moment, if you will. I want to get some salve to put on that bruise.” 

 

“It isn’t that bad,” Faramir protested, not wanting Aragorn to think he was weak, even though Gimli had said that Faramir needn’t worry about that. 

 

“Humor me,” the King said firmly, then left the room, presumably in search of the salve. 

 

Aragorn returned quickly with his healer’s satchel in hand, and produced a pot of bruise cream that Faramir knew from experience smelled strongly of peppermint and often stained clothes. 

 

“Oh, can I change clothes first?” Faramir asked, “I like this shirt.” Arwen had given it to him, and she had embroidered black Dol Amroth swans onto the cuffs. 

 

“Certainly,” Aragorn allowed, “And you needn’t wear anything formal. Dinner tonight is just friends, after all.” 

 

They were Aragorn’s friends, mostly, not Faramir’s, except for Gimli and Legolas and maybe Lannor, with whom Faramir had played netball a handful more times since the night before the pipeweed incident. But Faramir didn’t bother pointing that out, he just nodded his understanding before going through the adjoining door to his suite. 

 

He’d grown again, so his clothes were mostly in the midst of being altered or replaced. He did manage to find a long-sleeved white linen undershirt that was already stained with a bit of ink on the cuff, which didn’t end too much above his wrists. The sleeves were also loose and would be easy to push up so that Aragorn could smear Faramir’s upper arm with salve.

 

“Ready?” Aragorn asked, pot of salve in hand, when Faramir returned. 

 

“Yes, and I don’t mind sacrificing this shirt if it still smells like peppermint later.” 

 

Aragorn chuckled as he opened the pot, “Fortunately for you, oh discerning one, I changed the formulation. This one smells like cinnamon, but it is even more likely to stain.” 

 

Faramir observed with interest that it did smell very much like cinnamon. It was orangish-red in color instead of bluish-white, but the odor was actually pleasant. And, now that the salve was already numbing the pain, Faramir had to admit, if only to himself, that his arm had been hurting since the morning. 

 

Aragorn had finished with the bruise and was now moving his hands upward to coat the rest of Faramir’s upper arm and the base of his shoulder. Faramir couldn’t help sighing in relief as the pain from the strained muscles there eased as well. 

 

“Better?” the King asked, his blue-gray eyes fond and concerned. 

 

“Yes, thank you,” Faramir answered, not bothering to hide his gratitude. 

 

“Good,” said Aragorn. He went to wash his hands at the bowl of water on the sideboard, and toweled them dry, before replacing the lid on the bruise balm and turning his attention back to Faramir. 

 

“I don’t want you alone with Lord Tarsten again,” Aragorn said, and it was clear that he was giving an order. 

 

Faramir tilted his chin up in challenge, “I’m not afraid of him.” 

 

“I didn’t say that you were,” Aragorn replied patiently, “But all the same, one of the Steward’s guards, or one of mine, will be with you in the future when he comes to speak to you one-on-one.” 

 

Faramir rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in frustration, “Oh, that will look just wonderful, you putting a guard in with me when I’m discussing sensitive matters with other Lords of Gondor.” 

 

“Just the one,” Aragorn said, his tone still patient but starting to wear at the edges. 

 

“It won’t be seen that way,” Faramir pointed out. 

 

“I don’t care how it will be interpreted,” Aragorn said sternly, “I am going to speak to Tarsten. After we’ve spoken, I doubt that he will ever dare do anything similar again. But I’m not going to take any chances with your safety.” 

 

“It’s an unnecessary precaution,” Faramir complained, “And besides, what are you planning to say to him?” 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Aragorn advised, “All that you need concern yourself with is doing as I have directed.” 

 

Faramir shook his head, “The Lords of Gondor are already saying that I’m not my own man. I’m not willing to do anything that will make them think that I don’t trust them. And putting a guard in the room while I speak with them would certainly be taken that way!” 

 

“I wasn’t asking, Faramir. And if you don’t do as you’ve been told, then you’re going to have one of my guards keeping you company during all of your meetings.” 

 

“Fine,” snapped Faramir, who was weary of dealing with what seemed like everyone in the world’s stubbornness today, “Make it more difficult for me to do my job. Everyone else is, too!” 

 

Aragorn crossed his own arms and eyed Faramir thoughtfully, “I thought that you seemed troubled. What else has you so frustrated today?” 

 

Nothing that Faramir wanted to talk to Aragorn about. Instead, he just shook his head again, and looked down, avoiding the King’s too-insightful eyes. It was rude, and rather cowardly, but it was better than yelling at his friend and guardian. And better than telling the truth, at least in this instance. 

 

“Faramir?” the King prompted, when his ward remained silent. 

 

“May I be excused from dinner?” Faramir asked, instead of answering, still looking down. He didn’t want to talk about Lord Tarsten. And he certainly didn’t want to talk about his argument with Chief Archivist Arradon. 

 

“May you . . .” Aragorn started to repeat, then cut himself off with what seemed like a sigh of exasperation. After a moment, he said, “You may, if you insist. But I’m not going to change my mind about you never again being alone with Lord Tarsten.” 

 

“Of course not,” Faramir said bitterly, finally looking up to meet Aragorn’s eyes and not bothering to hide his incredible frustration about this particular decision of the King’s, “Why listen to your Steward of Gondor, who grew up in Gondor, when he’s advised you that you’re making a decision that will be interpreted badly by everyone in Gondor?” 

 

Aragorn’s eyes blazed gray fire for a moment, then he banked his temper with a sigh. After another pause, he said, “I think that you’re overreacting, Faramir, but if you need some time to calm down, that’s fine, you may have it.” 

 

Faramir couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed not to have been lambasted by the King after his borderline disrespect. He felt shaky, and besides that torn between wanting to be away from Aragorn and his ranger guests, and yet at the same time not wanting to miss dinner with his King and Legolas and Gimli during one of the last days that Aragorn might want him around. Who knew how Aragorn would feel about Faramir after next First Day morning, if Faramir couldn’t change Arradon’s mind before then? 

 

Faramir’s gaze had slipped down again while he thought, so he was surprised when Aragorn’s hand landed on his right shoulder again, the pressure firm but careful as always. 

 

“Take some time, and rejoin us when you’re ready,” the King said kindly, “I do hope that you will join us. But if you do not reappear before the trays are collected, I will not take offense. I will just have a tray sent to your room, and then we can talk again in the morning.” 

 

“Yes, Sir,” Faramir managed. Aragorn squeezed his shoulder and left the room. Faramir picked up a pillow from the settee, and hurled it at the opposite wall with all his strength. 


	3. Aragorn POV and Legolas POV

[Aragorn POV] 

Aragorn stopped in his bedroom before returning to the dining room, in order to give himself a moment to calm down. He wanted to wring Lord Tarsten’s wrinkled old neck, but that would only solve one problem. Now he was wondering whether it was safe to leave Faramir alone in a room with any of the other Council lords or guild masters with uncertain tempers. 

Oh, many of the men – and few women- were honorable folk. Aragorn would trust them with Faramir’s safety, even when he disagreed with them about nearly everything under the sun. But there were others, such as Guild Master Burgold, and Lord Calihmetar, and come to think of it, even Lord Morcocano, who made the hair on the back of Arwen’s neck rise, even though he’d never said or done anything particularly suspicious that Aragorn could recall. 

And Lord Tarsten . . . what an utter waste of a man! Aragorn picked up a pillow from the bed and hurled it at the far wall with all of his strength. It hit the wall with enough force to burst a seam, which sent feathers flying in every direction. Aragorn sighed deeply and considered exactly how much he’d need to apologize to the cleaning staff the next day. But it had taken at least some of the edge off his temper. There was something about the sight of feathers coating a room that never failed to bring back memories of his boyhood mischief. Giving his fluffy down bedecked bed chamber a final shake of the head, Aragorn took a deep breath and returned to the dining room. 

The kitchen staff had apparently been and gone on their first trip to deliver the food. The main course was roast venison, and under normal circumstances Aragorn would have found the scent quite appealing, but he found himself with little appetite this evening. 

Gimli and Legolas both looked up with sympathetic expressions on their faces when Aragorn entered. Aragorn gave them a grateful nod. His agitation didn’t go unobserved by his fellow rangers, either, although it was predictably enough Magordan who called him on it. 

“What’s got your tail in a twist, my lad?” Magordan asked. 

“The sad realization that it would do me no good to start imprisoning Lords of Gondor right and left, however much they might deserve it,” Aragorn said lightly. 

“I take it that Lord Tarsten said something beyond the pale of decent behavior to your lad, then?” Magordan inquired, apparently unsatisfied with his Chieftain’s first answer. 

“Somewhat worse than that,” Aragorn explained dryly, “When words failed him, Tarsten tried shaking Faramir into compliance. Hard enough that he left a bruise in the shape of his hand on Faramir’s upper arm.” 

The faces of Aragorn’s former Northern rangers all clearly registered their shock, and their anger. Even Megor, who did not know Faramir personally. 

“The lad wasn’t hurt beyond that, was he?” Gimli asked worriedly. 

Aragorn shook his head, then explained with a wry smile, “No. He’s just taken offense at my entirely reasonable direction that he not be alone with Lord Tarsten again, and needs some time to come to terms with it. I have hope that he will rejoin us shortly.” 

“I’ll go keep him company,” Legolas offered, “That is, if you don’t mind, Estel. Or you, Gimli.” Both assents quickly given, the elven teenager left to join Aragorn’s ward, taking a plate of food with him. Aragorn watched him go, remembering that just a mere seven decades ago, it would have been Legolas coming to sooth him after Lord Elrond had told his fosterling Estel yet again that he might not ride out with the elven patrols until he reached his majority. At which time, of course, Estel had learned that he was Aragorn, and that he had much bigger problems. 

Magordan and his distant Halrandir had been amongst his mentors in the Dunedain when young Aragorn first went and rejoined his people. They had helped him with what had been at the time a very difficult adjustment for their newly-of-age Chieftain. Ethiron, and the fallen Halbarad, had been young rangers at the same time as Aragorn. They had helped, too, in their way. And Gimli, as well as Legolas, had helped Aragorn fulfill what had once seemed that most impossible of his duties, defeating the Enemy for good so that he could reclaim his distant ancestor Isildur’s heritage. 

And all of his friends and mentors seemed to be in agreement that Aragorn was taking the proper course of action, no matter how unhappy it was making Faramir at the moment. 

“You’re doing the right thing, Aragorn,” Gimli was the first to assure him, “The lad didn’t want to report this to you in the first place. He wouldn’t have even thought of it if Legolas hadn’t seen the bruise and convinced him to talk to me at least.” 

That was both reassuring to Aragorn and at the same time irritating, “Why would Faramir be willing to talk to you and not to me?” the King questioned his dwarven friend, “What am I doing wrong such that he doesn’t feel comfortable bringing me his concerns?” 

“I don’t think that you’re doing anything wrong, lad,” Gimli told him sympathetically, “I think . . .”

Young Lannor interrupted Gimli to tell Aragorn, “Prince Faramir respects you greatly, cousin!” 

“Lannor, shh! Don’t interrupt Lord Gimli,” Megor scolded his son. 

“No harm done, Megor,” said Gimli easily, “If your lad has something to say, let him say it. Mahal knows he’s closer in age to Faramir than any of the rest of us here.” 

“That was what I meant to say,” Lannor explained, “Begging your pardon for interrupting, Lord Gimli, but I’ve gotten to know Prince Faramir a bit over the past few weeks. His respect for cousin Aragorn is plain for all to see. But he’s still just a teenager, still young enough to think that he can’t admit to any weakness if he wants to keep your respect, cousin. You saw how he tried to carry on with the extra wrestling and swordsmanship lessons you’ve been having him take even after he sprained his wrist, until you noticed it, at least.” 

“Which, from the great height of twenty-five years of age,” Orohael said wryly, “Lannor can tell us is foolish. Which is such a relief, given that it was only a few years ago that you and I were having a similar discussion, eh, Lannor?” 

That caused Lannor to blush rosily. 

Aragorn felt badly for Lannor, but he was too busy thinking on how he could convince Faramir that it wasn’t weakness to admit to having been injured, and that Aragorn wouldn’t think any less of him and in fact wanted Faramir to tell him these things. 

It was Gimli who took pity on Aragorn’s young cousin, “Lannor may well have something there. But I also don’t like that Faramir seemed to take being manhandled roughly as a matter of course. I don’t like what it implies about Lord Denethor and those who worked with him, particularly given what else we know about the man.” 

“I don’t like it, either,” agreed Aragorn, who knew even more about how Denethor and his staff had treated Faramir, and who had spent the occasional sleepless night worrying over the matter. He looked up across the table to meet Ethiron’s eyes. 

Aragorn’s friend and spymaster nodded subtly back, letting his lord know that he’d look into that past more thoroughly. 

“Lord Aragorn? A suggestion?” offered Dervorin. 

“Go ahead, Dev,” encouraged Aragorn. 

“I’ve a man on Faramir’s staff,” Dervorin explained, “His name is Fendir, he’s a former soldier who writes a good hand. Faramir’s chief of staff, Arciryas, hired him as a scribe. I didn’t like the rumors about how Lord Denethor’s staff treated his younger son, and Faramir kept some of those men on after his father the old Steward died. Arciryas himself is a good fellow, he was one of Imrahil’s factors in Minas Tirith before he went to work for Faramir, but I wanted someone to keep an eye on the rest of them.” 

“That sounds fine enough, Dev, although I would have liked to have been informed of it ahead of time,” Aragorn allowed. 

“Well, sorry about that, but my suggestion is to have Fendir sit in on Faramir’s meetings with Lord Tarsten, and anyone else like him, instead of a soldier. So the Steward of Gondor has a scribe to write down notes at the meetings he has with important folk. Who will think anything of it?” 

“Hmm,” Aragorn murmured, considering that, “Well, that would ameliorate Faramir’s primary concern, which was that having a guard with him would further alienate the lords of Gondor. I’ll want to meet Fendir first, and be sure that he’s up to the task before I tell Faramir, but it’s an idea with merit.” 

“It is, indeed,” praised Gimli, who was looking at Dervorin with new respect, “Even if this Fendir doesn’t work out, Aragorn, you could find somebody else. All you need is a trustworthy warrior who can write a good hand, after all.” 

“Thank you, Gimli, Dervorin,” said Aragorn, smiling for the first time since he’d quarreled with Faramir after caring for the youth’s arm. “I think that idea, or some variation on it, should work well.” And hopefully get the King out of Faramir’s bad books, as well! Now if Aragorn could only find out what else was going on in the life of his beloved ward that had Faramir so tense and unhappy . . . 

[Legolas POV] 

After Aragorn and Faramir left, there was an awkward silence, for without the two of them, the rest were really just a group of strangers or at the most acquaintances . Oh Legolas had known Megor long ago and had played netball with his son Lannor once, but that only made things more awkward for the young elf. He always found it discomfiting to realize he had been left far behind by one of his former mortal companions, and here he sat with this person he had remembered as an adventurous young man, but who now had a wizened weathered face, and even a son who had already outpaced the elf. It was disheartening to say the least. 

The only other person known to him and Gimli was Ethirion, who they both only knew as the man who had detailed every possible horrific thing that might have happened to him and Faramir on their ill fated trip to the Anduin. Gimli had seemed as stern as Aragorn at first, and determined that Legolas should listen carefully to every word Ethirion had to say, but then Etherion had gotten into graphic detail about what the men who had accosted them at the Shades likely had in mind. After that, the dwarf had looked more and more uncomfortable and kept glancing at his charge to see his reaction. Eventually it was Gimli who had demanded that Ethiron end the rebuke, and he had been very gentle and reassuring with Legolas later that evening when they were alone. Legolas had found it amusing and a little insulting that Gimli thought him too naive to have understood exactly what the men had wanted from him and Faramir. At least on the surface he was amused. Deep down he had been horrified, and even now he shuddered, but he shoved the thought aside. It was all over now. No use to dwell on it. 

Eventually the awkward silence got less awkward when Gimli and Magdoran, who seemed to get on right away, went back to discussing what they had been discussing before King and Steward had left them, and it didn’t take long for Aragorn to return alone. Legolas did feel sympathy over Aragorn’s confusion over what to do and over the predicament he was in. It was understandable that the King wished to protect his steward. 

But unlike Gimli and most of the others at the table, Legolas sympathies lay even more with Faramir. He could well imagine how upset Faramir must be at having been told he would have to be guarded from now on during political debates or discussions, for Legolas knew that Estel would not have made the stipulation just for Lord Tarsten. His friend must have been too angry and humiliated to wish to face anyone at the moment, which would explain his abrupt departure from dinner. Legolas knew quite well what it felt like to have adult responsibilities but to be protected as if her were just a child, and he hoped now that Faramir wasn’t angry with him as well. It was he, after all, who had convinced Faramir to confide in Gimli, who he knew very well would make sure Aragorn was alerted to the situation. He couldn’t quite regret that choice, but he did feel sorry that it had made his friend so unhappy.

“I’ll go keep him company,” Legolas suggested, then waited until he had gained permission from both Estel and Gimli before quickly filling a plate to bring to Faramir. Gimli’s purposefully clearing his throat reminded Legolas that he hadn’t eaten yet either, so he added a few more items to imply that he intended to share with his friend. Once the plate was full enough to gain a wink and shooing gesture from Gimli, Legolas hurried off to Faramir’s room.

Knocking once before entering, he found the young man angrily glaring out his bedchamber window, looking as if he wanted to scream, or maybe burst into tears, both of which were perfectly understandable reactions. 

“I…thought you might be hungry,” Legolas said, placing the plate down on a small table. 

At first, Faramir only l scowled at the suggestion, but it didn’t take long for his voracious teenage boy appetite to overtake his frustration, though he admittedly took a little of that frustration out on the food itself. He viciously ripped a large chunk of bread in half and then slapped a very generous amount of butter on it before slamming down the butter knife and shoving a full half of it in his mouth. He next attacked the roast beef with more vigor than was strictly needed for such a tender cut, so that it looked more like he was slaughtering it rather than eating it. Legolas even said as much.

“It is already dead, Faramir.”

This caused the young man to chuckle ruefully at least, but it did not deter him from continuing to make short work of the mountain of food, making Legolas hope that Gimli wouldn’t think to ask him what he himself thought of the meal later. As an elf, Legolas had more control over his need for food than mortals seemed to have and could quite comfortably skip a meal or two, but Gimli did not seem to be able to accept that concept. Estel and even Legolas’ own father had not helped that misconception when both had pointed out to Gimli that elflings should eat more regularly than adult elves since they were still growing and developing. That was just one more example of how people tended to dismiss his abilities because of his youth. The thought made him even more sympathetic with Faramir. 

“I am sorry,” Legolas said. “I expected Estel to give Tarsten a piece of his mind, or maybe even a taste of his own medicine, but I did not expect him to saddle you with a guard all the time.”

Faramir looked confused.

“Why ever are you sorry? It was not your fault that my King overreacted as he did.”

“But I convinced you to tell Gimli…” Legolas began, only to be interrupted by Faramir.

“Look, Legolas, I do not blame you or Lord Gimli at all. You were both right that Aragorn needed to know in case Tarsten treated someone else in the same manner. How would either of you have known that he would have been so completely unreasonable?”

Legolas was relieved to hear that, for he cherished his friendship with Faramir and would have not liked to have offended him in any way. Still he could not quite agree with his assessment of the situation. 

“I wouldn’t say he was completely unreasonable,” Legolas said. “He only wanted to keep you safe after all.”

Legolas felt a little like a traitor for saying such a thing, and at first he feared that Faramir might agree with him, for the young man frowned disapprovingly at him for a moment. But then Faramir’s face cleared and he shook his head as if he had changed his mind over whatever he intended to say at first.

“Of course you are right,” he agreed, at least with his words. Somehow Legolas could not quite believe that Faramir believed it himself. There was little point in worrying over it, however, so he quickly agreed when Faramir suggested they walk outside together to see the work they had done on the gardens earlier. As they walked, Faramir asked a few questions that Legolas at first hesitated to answer. 

“Tell me more about Megor,’ Faramir said. “How exactly do you know him.”

Legolas thought about that for a moment and his heart twisted a little as it always did when he thought too much about his mortal acquaintances, but he pushed that aside and answered Faramir’s question.

“I only met him once before when Elrond’s sons brought Aragorn and him to Greenwood. They were with us for only a month, but we went on patrols together and joined a hunt once. And we broke into the wine cellars in celebration of our kills and managed to drink an abundance of expensive wine that had been casked in Oropher’s day.”

“Sounds like fun,” Faramir said, smiling at the thought of his friend and his King sneaking into Greenwood’s wine cellars. 

“It was that,” Legolas admitted, “It was one of the few times I remember getting into mischief with someone who felt near my own age, and one of the few times I recall getting away with mischief at all. I wan’t so good at it on my own, but the two of them were experts.”

This time Faramir laughed out loud.

“And you already knew Aragorn before then?”

“I did,” Legolas told him. “I had met him once before on a visit to Imladris. He was only ten years old then. We were together for a whole summer that time, and we kept in touch as best we could, though that wasn’t easy. Anytime we knew of shipments or missives traveling between our homes we made sure there were letter on it.”

Legolas didn’t say so, but it had been shock to him to see Estel, who had been shoulder high on him at age ten, when he came to Greenwood as a young ranger at age twenty five. By then he was called Aragorn, and had reached his full six feet six inches. Glancing up at Faramir, Legolas realized again how much the young man looked like Aragorn at a similar age. Except for his lighter hair, they shared very similar features and even facial expressions. Plus both were impressively tall, and Faramir evidently was still growing if Legolas were to judge by the tunic sleeves that didn’t quite reach his wrists. The resemblance was striking really. 

“That must have been a surprise to see the change in him after so long,” Faramir said, interrupting his musing. 

“It was,” Legolas agreed. “Besides being so much bigger and more mature, he no longer wore his hair in elven style, but cropped it at the shoulders in the style of men, and he dressed differently as well. And he smoked a pipe, something I can’t imagine having been allowed in Lord Elrond’s house.”

“I don’t think the Queen cares for it much, if that is any proof,” Faramir said. “He seems to confine his smoking to his smoking lounge or to the balcony.”

“I wish Gimli would be so considerate!” Legolas snorted, though to be perfectly honest he didn’t actually mind the smell as much as he had at first. Now the sweet scent of pipe weed combined with the scent of leather and pine scented soap reminded him of stability and comfort. 

Faramir laughed obligingly, but he seemed to sense the elf’s melancholy, for he offered words of comfort.

“Aragorn still prizes your friendship even now, you know.”

“Aye, I know that,” Legolas agreed, and he did know it. He and Gondor’s King were bound together, for though their early times together hadn’t been long, they had been intense and full of adventure, and they had never lost touch in between times. Mostly, though they were bound by their time with the Ring bearer and beyond. Those of he fellowship were forever intertwined in ways no one else could ever understand. Still, that didn’t mean it wasn’t painful to see his friend grow and mature and pass him by. The boy he’d met so long ago, who had looked up to him as a hero, was now well into middle age, married and likely soon to be a father, while Legolas remained an adolescent. These days Aragorn was more likely to give him fatherly advice or scold him over his getting into mischief than he was to help him get away with anything. 

It had been a wonderful thing to meet Faramir, someone who really was at least relatively near his own age, and he cherished their time together, but in another twenty years, wouldn’t he be saying the same about his current partner in crime? 

Legolas shook his head and pushed that thought firmly away, thinking of what Gimli would say if he knew what he was thinking.

“Why borrow trouble, Laddie? Live in the moment, and enjoy it. Worrying only wears you out and gets you nowhere.”

It was good advice, he decided. He should enjoy this time while it lasted. Besides, it was a beautiful evening, so why spoil it? He turned his thoughts to the soft summer breeze and the new moon that was rising above the horizon and as they neared the garden, he admired the work they had done earlier that day. All he had really done so far, was pull weeds, but it was satisfying to see the fresh earth ready to be planted. Tomorrow he intended to plant a few saplings he had managed to gather on his way South. He had been carefully tending them in a makeshift greenhouse until they could be planted in their permanent home. 

Noticing a clump of creeping thistle that had somehow been missed, he knelt down to pull it out. Even though it had a lovely pink bloom and he felt a twinge of guilt for removing it-after all, who decided if something was a weed or a flower?-he knew if he left it, the invasive plant would take over the entire bed and wreck his design plans. He was just making certain he had gotten the last of the roots, when a very pompous looking figure appeared beside him, shaking a fist in his face.

The man was middle aged and bit paunchy, though his salt and pepper hair and beard were perfectly trimmed and his clothing spotless and ornate, as if he thought he were somebody important, and maybe he was. Legolas had no way to know since he had never seen the man before and had no inkling as to what he had done to offend the fellow. The man didn’t take long to clear things up for him.

“I’ve caught you red handed, you…you…” The man seemed at a loss for words in his fury, but he settled on “you pointy-eared scoundrel!”

Legolas, thoroughly confused looked to Faramir for an explanation and Faramir, who had been watching in shock, finally found his voice, but when he spoke he didn’t sound like the gently young man that Legolas had come to know. In fact he sounded rather stern. 

“Pray tell what exactly is the problem here, Archivist Belven?”

Whether Belven recognized Faramir or not, Legolas could not tell, but whatever the case he did not seem to mind saying what was on his mind.

“The PROBLEM is that this is sacred ground, young man! Sacred ground!”

“I have never heard of there being any sacred ground here,” Faramir reasoned, “Perhaps you are mistaken?”

Belven seemed further enraged at the suggestion that he might have been wrong. 

“Of course you haven’t heard of it. You’re nothing but a pup, and and impudent one at that! This ground has been declared sacred since long before you were born, and this guttersnipe has been digging in it as if it were a child’s sand pile! It is an outrage! An OUTRAGE!”

Legolas bristled at the use of the epithet, for he had heard humans use “guttersnipe” to describe badly behaved children. Pointy-eared scoundrel he could take, but he was no child! 

There was no time to object, however, because Faramir was one step ahead. His brow lowered ominously, further reminding Legolas of his uncanny resemblance to Aragorn. He straightened his back and kept his voice deceptively calm.

“This “impudent pup” is your Steward, sir,” Faramir said,looking straight into the angry man’s face, “and the “guttersnipe” as you’ve named him, is Prince Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen,also one of the nine walkers, a war hero and a dear friend of your King. He is here by special invitation from the king himself, so you would do well to modify your tone the next time you have cause to speak to him!” 

Belven blanched momentarily and had the grace to seem discomfited for a moment No doubt he had not know to whom he was speaking, but even so he did not back down.

“This is sacred ground, Lord Faramir, and I insist that this…this travesty be stopped! It is an insult to our predecessors!”

“I shall speak to Chief Archivist Arradon about your concerns in the morning,” Faramir cooly promised. 

“Arradon?” Belven sputtered, “why that old fool…”

“Until then,” Faramir interrupted, raising his voice just a bit. “Until then, Do not let us detain you from your duties, Master Belven.”

Belven did not quite stomp off, but he turned sharply away and Legolas did not care for the almost sinister look on his face when he did so. The two friends watched the still clearly irate man stalk away, and then shared a baffled look. 

“Wonder what bug got in his ear!” Faramir said, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’ve never heard of any sacred ground. I’m sorry you had to put up with that ass.”

“Not your fault,” Legolas shrugged. “If there is sacred ground here, Arwen doesn’t know about tit. She was the one who showed me the optional garden locations, and she certainly never mentioned it. Oh and thanks for standing up for me. You made me sound very important.”

“You are very important,” Faramir said. “You’re the most important “guttersnipe” in the city!”

“Great,” Legolas laughed. “I can hardly wait to tell Gimli about my new title. It is quite an honor.”

“You’ll receive your chain of office sometime next week,” Faramir played along, then added seriously. “I suppose it is possible that there is something about these grounds that Arwen might not have known, but it seems odd that I have never heard of it before. I know this city inside and out. Ah well, never mind. I’ll speak to Chief Archivist Arradon in the morning. He’ll be sure to know.

 

Only it was never to be.

The next morning there was such a downpour that both Legolas and Gimli were unable to proceed with their morning plans, and therefore decided to join the King and Steward for breakfast served in the King’s private quarters. It was a pleasant change not to have to rush around in order to get started working with the dawn, so they both looked forward to a leisurely morning. They took their time over the first pot of tea in their own chambers and then arrived to the King’s rooms just after the meal would have already been served. 

They were alarmed to find Faramir and Aragorn sitting on a couch rather than at the table, Faramir ashen-faced and trembling and Aragorn, who was rubbing the younger man’s back, looking very grim himself. Legolas started to rush over to Faramir, but a firm but gentle hand on his arm kept him in place. Confused, he looked at Gimli, who raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, telling him without words that he should slow down and find out more information before heedlessly interrupting what might not be and of his business. It was Gimli who drew Aragorn’s attention by softly clearing his throat. 

“Is anything wrong Lad?” he asked, when Aragorn glanced up at the pair of them. “Is there something we can do, or would you rather be left alone?”

“No need for that, friend Gimli,” Aragorn said as he pulled Faramir, who had now hidden his face in Aragorn’s shoulder, into a one armed embrace. “We are glad to have you with us at this sad time. I have just been told that earlier this morning Master Arradon was found dead by one of his colleagues.”

Legolas remembered the name from his conversation with Faramir earlier. It was the man that Faramir had been so put out with that had caused him to be so vicious with the weeds the day before. Still he knew Faramir was normally fond of the man and that he had likely known him since childhood.

“The Chief Archivist?” he asked. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“He was beloved by many,” Aragorn confirmed. 

Gimli nodded when Legolas threw him a pleading look, so the elf came forward this time and sat on the other side of his friend, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“It is terrible news, Fara,” Legolas said, “I know he was your friend.”

Faramir didn’t make a sound or say a word, but Legolas could feel the deep shaking of his shoulders that meant he must have been silently weeping. Aragorn was ghostly white as well, something Gimli must have noticed, for he poured a cup of coffee, even though he never drank it himself. 

“Come, laddie,” he motioned to Aragorn. “whatever else needs must be done, you still need to eat. It will bolster you to face the day.”

Aragorn nodded, and rose, accepting the cup from Gimli’ hand and wrapping both hands around it. He took an appreciative sniff first, then sipped it before holding out a hand to Faramir, who had moved so that his face was now in his hands.

“You too, Faramir lad,” Gimli softly encouraged. “no need to deal with things on an empty stomach.”

The words meant to soothe, seemed to cause Faramir to be more upset than ever. 

“I can’t! “ he cried from behind his hands.

“I know it is hard, dear Faramir,” Aragorn coerced him. “But you are clearly experiencing a growth spurt, and it will do you little good to skip a meal. I wouldn’t want you to end up feeling faint later in the day.”

This seemed to only work to cause Faramir to curl forward and wrap his arms over his head, instead of merely hiding his face in his hands. Automatically Legolas leaned forward as well as if trying to make eye contact and stroked Faramir’s hair as he did so.

“Why can’t you, Fara? Legolas softly asked.

Faramir sat up suddenly, clenched fists now in his lap, his eyes damp and face streaked with tears. 

“It is impossible!” Faramir insisted. “I couldn’t possibly eat at a time like this, not when it is my fault he is dead!”

 

The other three in the room, looked at one another in shock and then at Faramir. All three tried to speak at once.

“Nonsense, Laddie!”

“But I was with you all evening!”

“I don’t know what has gotten into your head young man, but you clearly are not thinking straight!”

This last from Aragorn, who had grasped Faramir by the chin and shook it a little as he looked sternly into the boy’s grey eyes, eyes that Legolas thought seemed almost to be looking into a mirror that showed the future or past, depending on the point of view. The two of them really looked alike!

“I told you already, it was likely his heart,” Aragorn continued to try to convince the young man. “It is completely unreasonable to take the blame on yourself.”

“But…but we argued yesterday,” Faramir said, “I yelled at him and stomped off in a rage. Maybe that is what upset him and caused his heart to fail.”

Aragorn’s face softened, and he sat back down beside his young charge, putting a hand on either side of his face.

“As a healer, I swear to you that isn’t even possible, my lad,” Aragorn promised. “If your argument were going to damage his heart, he would have dropped dead during the fight, not the next morning. Besides, I strongly suspect that you were the only one who was angry. Likely Arradon was perfectly calm and reasonable. I doubt he worried over it beyond hoping you were not too unhappy about…well whatever it was.”

“Maybe,” Faramir conceded, clearly not really sure if he agreed, though Legolas was happy to see he did look relieved at the King’s words, though he was still unhappy.

“Even so, I wish my last words to him hadn’t been unkind ones,” Faramir mourned. “I was really angry with him.”

This time it was Gimli who spoke up to comfort.

“Ah well, we can all wish we could change things we’ve said and done, but for the most part the old fellow thought of you as a friend. He was experienced enough not to have been too offended, no doubt, as he surely recognized your anger as merely the passion of youth. He would not want you to worry over it, I am sure.”

“Do you really think so, Gimli?”

Faramir wiped his eyes on his sleeve and in a fatherly gesture, the dwarf handed him a napkin from the table so he could wipe his nose as well. 

“Of course I do, youngling. I wouldn’t have said so if I didn’t! Now come. We mustn’t let the porridge cool else we’ll have to slice it and put it on toast. Plus I see there are some summer melons on offer this morning. I seem to recall you have a fondness for them.”

“He has a fondness for anything that doesn’t eat him first,” Legolas teased, which worked to make Faramir mock scowl and playfully punch him in the arm. 

After that the mood lightened considerably, though everyone could see that Faramir was still upset. Aragorn and Gimli exchanged meaningful glances when he passed on second helpings of the fried potato cakes that were usually his favorite, but at least he was eating, and at least he seemed to have let go of the idea that Arradon’s death was his fault. 

Afterwards Faramir insisted on calling on Arradon’s family to discuss his obsequies, and Aragorn insisted on going with him so Faramir wouldn’t have to be alone. 

“But you must have a full day planned,” Faramir argued, but Aragorn would not change his mind.

“Plans can be changed, “ he reasoned. “and this is not something you need to handle alone. Besides, Arradon was a faithful and respected citizen, and he deserves nothing less.”

Faramir could hardly argue with that, so after the meal, they both went to change into appropriate clothing, leaving Legolas and Gimli to decide what to do with their own day.

The rain had slowed, but Gimli deemed it still too wet to work on the gates. One could not take a chance when dealing with slippery metal, especially when it needed to be cut. But the rain was warm, and the saplings Legolas had intended to plant would thrive in the wet ground, so he decided to go ahead with his plans for the day, and rather than sitting home twiddling his thumbs, Gimli decided to join him.

It was odd to see Gimli in worn trousers and an old shirt rather than the leather apron and goggles he normally worked in when he was cutting and forging metal, and it was even stranger to see him with a hoe and spade in his hand rather than tongs and a hammer, but the dwarf didn’t seem to think it strange at all, and simply asked what he could do to help.

“We’ll first we need to fetch the saplings,” Legolas told him. “Then we’ll measure where they should go and plant them in the ground. It is simple.”

“Lead on then, Lamb!” 

So in spite of the dreary morning, the pair were merry as they plotted out their day. The digging had not been quite as simple as Legolas had first suggested. The ground was quite compact, so the holes had to be dug nearly twice as big as they would have had to have been in looser soil. Plus the roots had to be carefully protected, and given the perfect amount of room to spread and grow without competing with the tree next to it. 

“They need to be exactly as deep as they were when I dug them up in the first place,” Legolas explained. “for if they aren’t as deep the roots will be shocked and die. And we need to get out all the air pockets or the tree will be weak and fall over.”

“Aren’t eves supposed to be able to commune with the trees?” Gimli teased. “Why not just ask them how they’d like to be planted?”

Legolas just rolled his eyes, not realizing that Gimli was making fun, for it was true that he could communicate with the trees, only these were only saplings.

“They are too young to know what is best for them,” Legolas patiently explained. “Someone who knows better what they need has to help them.”

Legolas ignored him when Gimli guffawed at that, for he knew very well that the dwarf was biting his tongue to prevent himself saying how well he understood that dilemma. Instead of responding he merely took the spade from his friend.

“I think these last two holes need to be a few inches deeper, Elvellon,” he said. “Here I’ll finish them while you begin setting the saplings in their place. They are crabapple trees and I’ve marked them by color. It should go white, pink, red, red, pink, white.”

Gimli gamely did as he was instructed, looking carefully for the color mark before carefully placing each sapling in it’s hole. He had all of them in place, save one, which he set down to wait as Legolas finished his task. 

Legolas frowned, for something was obstructing him from completing his task, probably a rock, or maybe the root stock of an old tree. Lifting the spade and trying again, harder this time, he still couldn’t get it to sink into the ground. 

“There is something here,” he told Gimli. “something bigger than just a stone.”

“Would you like me to try?” Gimli offered, making the elfling frown. He did not like the implication that Gimli thought he might be stronger than him, even if it was probably true! There was no way to really know since they had never had a real contest of strength, and they never would if Legolas had his way, for he secretly worried that it might be true. Gimli did carry about his great heavy war axe as if it weighed no more than a belt knife. Whatever the case, he needn’t imply that Legolas needed help digging a hole! He shoved the spade into the ground once again, this time putting his foot on it and thrusting with his full weight. This time both companions heard the loud clang when the metal spade came in contact with something hard. 

Tossing the spade aside, Legolas got down on his knees with a trowel intent on digging around and removing whatever was in his path. He had only dug for a moment, when he uncovered something thin and white, probably an animal’s bone. Grasping it firmly, he tugged hard, and then yelped and got to his feet, jumping back beside his startled guardian when he saw what he had unwittingly uncovered.

Amazed at his lad’s response, Gimli looked as well, and then slapped his own forehead in his dismay. 

“Mahal’s beard, Laddie, that is a human hand!”

“More than just a hand Gimli! There is an arm as well, and maybe more!”

Curiosity having quickly overcome horror, he started to drop back to his knees to continue digging, but soon found himself being pulled back away from the hole.

“No way, laddie!” Gimli growled, taking firm hold of Legolas forearm. “ Do not look! This is a task for others.”

Legolas tried to free himself, but to no avail, so he attempted to reason instead. 

“But Gimli, I just want to…”

He never got to finish the thought, for Gimli was yanking him back away from the garden.

“But nothing, elfling,” Gimli insisted. “What you want to do matters not a whit. You are coming with me and we will report what we’ve seen here to the proper authorities! Now move!”

Gimli’s free hand coming down hard on the seat of his leggings worked to prevent Legolas looking back again at the gruesome sight, but just barely. It was only his fear of others seeing or overhearing what might happen should he choose to defy his guardian’s command that kept him from his morbid curiosity. That and the fact that he could not seem to free himself from the dwarf’s grip no matter how hard he tried. So he reluctantly marched off toward the citadel without a backwards glance at his shocking discovery, though he was certain it was a sight he would never, ever forget.


	4. Faramir POV and Aragorn POV

[Faramir POV] 

“The healers estimate that the poor fellow died about twenty years ago, your highness,” Captain Beregrond reported to Faramir, “He may be difficult to identify, as most of his clothing and other belongings had succumbed to the dirt. We did find this, however.” 

Beregrond took out a small leather bag, and upended a bit of silver onto Faramir’s desk. 

The Steward examined it curiously. It didn’t look like anything, in and of itself. It wasn’t a ring, and while it almost looked like a very small arm-band, it wasn’t that either. And yet, it was familiar, as if Faramir had seen something similar before. And not just once, but often, and recently. 

He closed his eyes, attempting to bring to his mind where he’d seen such a thing before. It was a trick that Mithrandir had taught Faramir, for bringing back a memory when it was just beyond his conscious recall. And Mithrandir . . . had smoked pipes. Some pipes, expensive ones, like Gimli’s and Aragorn’s, had silver fittings. 

“Do you think that it could have been part of a pipe?” Faramir asked Beregrond and Haldan, “Like the ones that the King and Lord Gimli smoke?” 

“I . . . hadn’t thought of that, Sir,” Beregrond admitted, “But it does look like that would fit. That makes it likely that the poor fellow was only a visitor to our city. And it will be hard to find out who he was, in that case.” 

“Either that,” Faramir conceded, “or he may be easier to identify than we think. The garden where he was found is attached to the private entrance to the Archives from the Citadel, not the main entrance on the sixth level that all citizens are welcome to pass through. A stranger who was even allowed in that area would have been notable. And an archivist, or someone else from Minas Tirith who did smoke a pipe, would have been memorable.”

Faramir looked up from the sad little bit of silver, and asked, “Normally a murder investigation would be handled by the City Guard, not the Citadel Guard. Beregrond, do you have enough men to handle making inquiries into this new matter – such as whether anyone might have known such a person twenty years ago – or should we requisition additional men from the City Guard?” 

“I’d rather not, Sir,” said Beregrond in a pained tone, “They’d all have to be vetted to traipse unaccompanied throughout the sixth and seventh levels.” 

“Could we ask if some of the off-duty King’s Guards could assist, instead?” Haldan queried, “They already have permission to wander freely here.” 

Faramir considered that, “Why don’t you run the idea by Captain Magordan?” he suggested, “If he thinks that he has enough men with the proper training to assist, then we can ask the King. Agreed?” 

“Agreed, Sir,” said Beregrond, “We’ll get started with the inquiries in the meantime.” 

“Thank you, Beregrond, Haldan.” said Faramir, with feeling, “I feel sure that Gondor is blessed by the skill and dedication of her Citadel Guard. And please let me know if there is anything else that you require.” 

“With you as Steward, my young Lord, we don’t need to worry about that,” Beregrond said fondly, before he and Haldan departed to go about their duties. 

That left Faramir alone for the first time on this sad day. He slumped at his office chair, bending over his desk and holding his head in his hands. 

Faramir’s kind, wise old friend and mentor, Chief Archivist Arradon, was dead. Faramir would never pop into his office, and have Arradon regale him with a recent find again. Nor would he ever be able to go to the tactful and considerate man for advice. And worst of all, Arradon had died thinking that Faramir was angry with him. 

The young Steward and Prince tried to believe that Aragorn and Gimli were right, and that Arradon had known that Faramir’s fierce words revealed only the teenager having lost his temper, and that they’d had no significant impact on Faramir’s fondness and respect for Arradon. 

Faramir didn’t know how he would have gotten through the morning without Aragorn’s support. The King had accompanied Faramir to Arradon’s daughter’s house, and he had comforted Arradon’s grandchildren while she and Faramir discussed funeral arrangements. 

And, after that sad meeting, Faramir still had the rest of his day to get through. Aragorn had suggested that it might be best for Faramir to rearrange his schedule. 

“Go for a ride, clear your head,” the King had urged, “the work will still be here when you get back.” 

“No, we need to go through the reports from the southern fiefdoms,” Faramir had explained, “to determine where seasonal workers are needed for the harvest. We still have a large number of war refugees in Minas Tirith who are looking for work. Sending them to Lossarnach, Lebennin, Lamedon, and the smaller fiefdoms would take care of their labor shortfall. And potentially help some of them find new homes, as well.” 

“And one day will really make such a difference?” Aragorn had asked, fondly skeptical. 

“I like to keep busy,” Faramir had reminded the King, torn between gratitude for his King’s (and secret father’s) kindness, and mild frustration at being humored and handled. 

“Hmmm, I know that you do,” Aragorn had conceded, “But I want to make sure that you also have some time to rest, and engage in activities for your own pleasure. Why don’t you leave sixth day afternoon free? We could go camping.” Aragorn smiled ruefully, “You, me, and a half dozen guards. Megor and Lannor, if they’re still with us, and Gimli and Legolas, if they would like, as well.” 

“That would be nice,” Faramir had agreed, before realizing that seventh day was when Arradon would have told the King the truth. Now Faramir didn’t have to worry about that . . . and he almost wished that he did. He’d rather have Arradon alive and Aragorn told about being his father, then Arradon dead and getting to keep his secret. 

Faramir’s downturn in mood after that realization had almost resulted in Aragorn ordering him to take the rest of the day off. But fortunately, the King’s hard-working and long-suffering secretary had found him then, and Aragorn had been successfully distracted long enough for Faramir to make his escape. 

Faramir and his staff had barely been at work an hour on the harvest labor numbers and their never-ending pile of petitions before word came that Gimli and Legolas had found a dead body in the archive gardens. Faramir felt very badly for his friend – what an awful thing to find while trying to plant new life! He also felt sorry for Gimli, whom Faramir knew tried very hard to keep Legolas away from such things. Faramir, like Legolas, thought that doing so was a little silly, but it was nonetheless a sign of affection and caring. 

Legolas had asked that Faramir keep him updated on the status of the investigation into the identity of the corpse who had been buried in the flowerbed. Gimli had asked the same, but with a tone to the question which suggested that he didn’t want too many gruesome details to be aired in front of Legolas. Faramir would do his best to keep both of them happy. 

In any case, that investigation was eating into time which Faramir had originally planned to use for reviewing the harvest numbers, as well as rebuilding expense estimates and autumn army redeployment plans. Faramir simply had to get more done in the time left to him today, despite having no energy for it. So he asked Herion for another cup of coffee, ignoring his squire’s suggestion -likely made at Aragorn’s direction- that it might be best to switch to lemonade. 

Faramir knew that the coffee would earn him a royal lecture. The few drops of lendrestil, a stimulant that the Swan Knights and the Ithilien rangers used when sleep was inadvisable, that Faramir had added to his coffee might well earn him more than a lecture, if the King were to find out about it. 

Aragorn had never said that Faramir shouldn’t have lendrestil. But he’d also never said that Faramir had to tell him when Faramir got hurt. Spraining his wrist and then not telling Aragorn about it until the King had noticed it himself during arms practice had resulted in a very firm lecture, which had been followed by a handful of stinging swats after the wrist was wrapped and treated. 

But the coffee and the stimulant at least helped Faramir to get the harvest recommendations finished before the next interruption presented himself. 

“Your highness,” Faramir’s squire Herion announced, “The newly-elected Master Chief Archivist Belven is here to pay his respects. Do you have time to speak with him, or should I have Arciryas put him on your schedule for tomorrow?” 

Faramir barely hid a wince at the news that the archivists, normally a sensible lot, had elected the officious and rather slimy Belven as their new leader. But he’d have to deal with the man, nevertheless, so Faramir told Herion to let him in. 

Belven was dressed even more ornately than he had been the previous evening when he attempted to drive Legolas away from a flower bed. His smile as he greeted Faramir was self-proud to the point of smug. The expression rang a bell of alarm in Faramir’s mind – in no small part because this was the man who now had access to some of Gondor’s most sensitive records, including one of great import to Faramir personally. 

The new Master Chief Archivist interlaced his hands authoritatively, and then said, “Lord Faramir, we have much to discuss.” 

“In that case, Master Belven, I am glad that you have come to see me directly,” said Faramir. 

“First off,” Belven began, “I trust that there will be no more disturbing of sacred ground in the Archive gardens.” 

Faramir opened his mouth to explain about the dead body Legolas had found just that morning, and then stopped himself. Belven might hear about it anyway, as Beregrond and his staff were making inquiries. But something made Faramir want to wait on sharing that intelligence. 

Belven, likely assuming that Faramir had been about to speak and then had decided that Belven was too important to be interrupted in such a fashion, nodded in satisfaction, and then continued, “And secondly, I have come about a matter of much importance to you . . . personally.” 

“Have you, now?” Faramir asked, careful to keep all of his tension out of his voice. 

“Yes, Lord Faramir . . . or Lieutenant Faramir, perhaps it should be, as that’s the only title you’ve actually earned,” Belven said with a sneer, “and as you are, in truth, no more than the bastard of a fatherless sell-sword named Thorongil.” 

“I am,” Faramir replied sternly, even as his mind was in an uproar, “Your Lord Steward, and the Prince of Ithilien. I am the latter by the King’s direct, personal appointment – with respect to which my paternity has no bearing. And I am the Steward because my brother Boromir, whom the Council of Gondor voted to officially consider the twenty-seventh Lord Steward, had designated me as the heir to all of his positions.” 

“Oh, I still think it would come as quite a shock to the Lords of Gondor- and to our new King – that the callow boy he has made into the second man of Gondor is, in fact, nothing more than a mercenary’s bastard,” Belven said confidently. 

“He would certainly be surprised to learn that I am Thorongil’s son, yes,” Faramir allowed, marveling at Belven’s remarkable lack of knowledge about who, exactly, Thorongil had proved to be. For an archivist, the man was not particularly good at his job. 

But as a blackmailer, he seemed quite practiced, Faramir decided, as Belven proceeded to threaten, “I will announce your parentage to all of Gondor – as is my duty, as Chief Archivist – unless you apologize to Lord Tarsten for your rudeness and recalcitrance on the issue of raising the tariffs against Harad. Which no true Man of Gondor would deny is the right and proper thing to do. You and the King, on the hand, wish to reward those who fought against us with trade opportunities!” 

While Faramir watched Belven with surprised horror and incipient disgust, the man continued, “Unless you wish to be known as a sell-sword’s by-blow, you will give your best effort – and it had better be cursed good – at changing the King’s mind with respect to that same tariff.” 

Taking Faramir’s stunned silence for agreement, Master Belven nodded in a superior fashion and then swept himself out of the door without waiting to be dismissed. 

Less than five minutes had passed between the time that Belven left and Legolas and Gimli’s arrival. Herion knew that Faramir was alone, so he just waved the elf and dwarf along in. He did the same with Aragorn, and as a general rule Faramir didn’t mind. But this time, Faramir rather wished that he’d had more time to regain his composure. 

“Faramir?” Legolas asked, his blue eyes bright with curiosity despite his sorrow and outrage earlier in the day, “Have you found out anything? About the poor fellow in the flower bed?” 

“Now, now, laddie,” said Gimli as he entered the room on Legolas’ heels, “Our friend Faramir has many responsibilities. He may not have had the chance to learn anything yet.” 

Then Gimli took one look at Faramir’s face, and all of his focus changed from trying to slow Legolas down to trying to calm Faramir down. 

“Whatever is the matter, Faramir lad?” Gimli asked, after closing the door, “I’d say that you look like you’ve seen a ghost, save that would be in poor taste today.” 

“No, it’s not . .” Faramir began, “I mean, it isn’t . . .um, everything is fine.” 

Legolas and Gimli exchanged skeptical glances. Rather to Faramir’s surprise, it was Legolas who called his bluff. 

“As Gimli would say, pull the other leg, Faramir,” the elven Prince scoffed in a friendly way, “Why don’t you spare us the effort of talking you around, and just tell us what’s the matter this time?” 

“Legolas is right – don’t preen, laddie, it’s not that rare an occurrence - Why don’t you tell us what’s going on, Faramir my friend? Whatever it is must be quite a challenge to have you in such a muddle. Maybe we can help you to figure it out. At the very least, you won’t be alone in having to deal with what must be a sticky matter indeed.” 

That came so close to the truth! Faramir wanted to cry, but he didn’t want to seem weak. He laughed instead, almost unable to believe it all himself, and said wryly, “Would you believe that Chief Archivist Belven is trying to blackmail me?” 

Legolas frowned, “The pompous twit who called me a guttersnipe?” 

Gimli’s attention moved off of Faramir for the first time since entering the room, as he enquired in brusque disbelief of his ward, “He called you what?”

“Yes, him,” Faramir confirmed, “And he is a pompous twit. But he’s also a criminal. And I am by Eru not changing my vote on the tariff issue OR apologizing to Lord Tarsten, no matter who Belven threatens to tell . . .

Faramir managed to stop himself mid-sentence, but it was already too late. 

“Tell what, Faramir?” Legolas asked, tilting his head like a curious cat. 

“I’d rather not say,” Faramir answered on a sigh, looking down at his desk. 

“What did he threaten to tell, Faramir," Gimli coaxed. "You can tell us lad. Maybe we can help."

“And you shouldn’t have to deal with this alone!” Legolas added. 

Faramir wasn’t even sure that he could deal with it on his own. And out of everyone he knew, he trusted Gimli and Legolas more than anyone except Aragorn and Arwen. And, for obvious reasons, Faramir would rather cut off a limb than tell either of them any of this. 

“A long time ago,” Faramir began, “My mother committed a crime. She left a record of that crime with Master Chief Archivist Arradon, because she trusted him and . . . because she wanted there to be a record of what she’d done. Arradon deserved her trust, and never told anyone. Belven, however, is using my natural desire not to see my mother’s name dragged through the mud to try and make me change my vote on the tariff issue, lobby Aragorn in that direction, and APOLOGIZE to Lord Tarsten. And I’m not going to do any of that,” Faramir finished with disgust. 

“I should say not!” Legolas agreed. He was clearly outraged on Faramir’s behalf, which felt a little nice, actually. 

“Well, lad,” said Gimli sympathetically, “It’s to your credit that you want to protect your mother’s reputation. I wouldn’t expect anything else. And I’m sure that she had reasons for doing whatever it was that she did. But she couldn’t have known how it would affect you. After all, who would blame you for a crime committed by someone else, even your mother?” 

After debating the issue with himself for a few moments, Faramir decided to confess a portion of the truth. Looking pensively into Gimli’s kind dark eyes, Faramir explained, “My mother’s crime, by its very nature, clouds my right to all of my titles and offices.” 

“It . . .” Gimli began, then tailed off as realization struck, “Ah, lad,” he said sympathetically, moving around the desk to lay a broad hand gently on top of Faramir’s right shoulder, “You wouldn’t be the first person who carries titles that you may not have a blood right to bear. But you earned the right to be Aragorn’s Steward by your brave and loyal service to him and to your Kingdom and your people.” 

Surprised by the kind reassurance, and by the overall mildness of Gimli’s reaction to what Faramir viewed as life-altering information, Faramir reflexively protested, “That’s not what the Lords and powerful of Gondor will think, if they find out!” 

“Let them think what they like,” said Gimli firmly, “Aragorn won’t care. And neither should you. And that type of thing is always a risk when family lines are traced through the father. I’m sure it happens far more often than people admit to.” 

Legolas, beside Gimli, hadn’t put the pieces together quite as quickly but got there on his own, nonetheless. 

“What risk?” he asked, and then said, “Oh. Oh. . . .” and stared worriedly at Faramir, before rallying himself to say stalwartly, “You’re still our friend, and Aragorn’s capable right-hand man, no matter who your father was.” 

Faramir nodded his thanks, his gratitude and shocked relief taking him beyond words. 

Legolas nodded back, wrestled with his curiosity for a moment, and then couldn’t help but ask, “Do you know who your father is, Faramir?” 

There had been no way to avoid this question coming up. But Faramir was at least able to give Legolas something true, though incomplete. 

“He was a soldier,” Faramir said carefully, “I recognized his name as that of a man who had fought the Enemy under my grandfather . . . ah, I mean under Lord Steward Ecthelion’s rule. He had not been heard from since, and I didn’t know anything else about him,” Faramir finished, silently adding, ‘at that time.’ Aragorn did not trade much on the feats that he had accomplished as Thorongil, but the name had come up when first the King returned to Gondor, more than often enough for Faramir to have learned that Aragorn had been Thorongil. 

Faramir had expected Legolas and Gimli to press him harder on the point of his father’s name, or to connect the argument between Faramir and Arradon with the identity of Faramir’s father. But that wasn’t what happened. His friends were more concerned about FARAMIR than who had sired him. 

“How long have you had to carry the burden of this knowledge, Faramir lad?” Gimli asked compassionately.

“Since I was five,” Faramir answered, suddenly feeling the weight of it even more now that he had someone else to share the secret, “my Mother told me on her death bed.” 

“That was quite a weight to lay on a tiny child, my friend,” said Gimli, his tone still kind and caring. 

“She . . . she knew that she didn’t have any time left,” Faramir murmured, his mind on those long-ago days. 

“I’m sure that your mother did her best,” Gimli allowed, “But she left you a bit of a mess. And this Belven fellow who’s after insulting Legolas and blackmailing you, he’s taking advantage of it.” 

“And who knows what else he’s done,” Faramir said angrily, the rage feeling good after all the other, more complicated emotions, “And who knows what he will do!” And, unfortunately, Faramir knew what he had to do next, to keep Belven from committing more crimes. 

“I have to tell Aragorn about the blackmail,” Faramir accepted, “But I don’t want him to know . . . about what my mother did. He knew her; they were friends. He was even friends with my father . . . with Lord Denethor, when Lord Denethor was younger. I don’t want him to know.” 

Gimli and Legolas exchanged uncomfortable looks. 

“Please don’t tell him,” Faramir pleaded. 

“Ah, lad,” Gimli began, “I don’t know as it’s going to be possible to keep that part quiet. But we’ll go with you, and we’ll do our best. Come along now. It’s almost time for dinner, anyway.” 

And it was, as Faramir’s stomach reminded him. Although he wasn’t able to eat a bite until he’d gotten through at least part of the same explanation he’d given to Gimli and Legolas. 

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully, although a quiet fire had blazed in his eyes since Faramir had first admitted to Belven trying to blackmail him. 

“And you do not feel that you can tell me what crime your mother Finduilas committed?” the King asked gently. 

“I . . . I don’t want you to think poorly of her!” Faramir protested, very carefully keeping his mind on that one feeling. A true feeling, but a very incomplete one. And he couldn’t give in to worrying about Aragorn also feeling betrayed and hurt, by what Finduilas had done. Or to his even more debilitating fear that Aragorn would look with disgust on Faramir for being the result of that intimate and unforgivable betrayal. 

“And I can’t promise that I won’t, Faramir,” the King said in a studiedly reasonable tone, “but I can tell you that I knew your mother. And that the courageous yet flawed woman I knew would have far preferred others to look poorly upon her than to allow a child of hers to suffer for one of her failings.” 

“I will have to take your word for that, Sir,” Faramir said stubbornly, “For I was too young when she died to know it.” 

Aragorn took a deep, calming breath, then nodded, “Very well. I will let the issue go – for now. It doesn’t truly matter what information the new Chief Archivist Belven is threatening to reveal. The important fact, as you yourself noted, Faramir, is that he has revealed himself to be a criminal unworthy of the title of Archivist, let alone Chief Archivist.” 

“If I could confront him by myself, but in front of witnesses whom he couldn’t see, such as in one of the testimony rooms in the Archives,” Faramir proposed, “He would likely incriminate himself.” 

“Perhaps,” Aragorn conceded, “But that plan would require you to be functionally alone in a room with him. And I am not willing to take that risk with your safety. Especially not when your word alone is enough for us to detain and question him.” 

“But people will challenge the arrest!” Faramir objected, “They will say that I had something to hide, and that that secret is the only reason why I ordered him sequestered. Belven will be able to make that argument, too.” 

“Then we’ll deal with that when it happens,” said Aragorn firmly, “The fact that he attempted to blackmail you is sufficient grounds to remove him from his office, and to begin an investigation into former Chief Archivist Arradon’s death.” 

Faramir was shocked into silence by the implications of that. Legolas, not so much. 

“But, Estel,” the elven Prince queried, “I thought that you had said that Chief Archivist Arradon’s death was a natural one. His heart, wasn’t it?” 

“I did, and it was his heart,” said Aragorn, his voice now compassionate again as his gray-blue eyes moved to Faramir, “But Arradon had no history of heart problems. And he exercised vigorously with the Citadel militia, and had participated himself in the defense of Minas Tirith during the War. If his heart was going to fail, it shouldn’t have done so while drinking his morning tea. Given that this Belven is a blackmailer . . . well, that and the unusual circumstances of Arradon’s death raise the question of whether Belven might also be a murderer. He had access to the Archivists’ sitting room where Arradon was found after his heart episode. Arradon’s tea cup had fallen to the floor and shattered, but there are substances that could have been added to his tea which would have caused a natural-seeming death.” 

“And if this ass Belven is a poisoner as well as a blackmailer,” Gimli interjected, “Than the last place we want our Faramir is in proximity to this blackguard when Faramir tells him ‘no.’”

“Exactly,” Aragorn agreed, again looking kindly to Faramir, as if to judge whether his ward understood. 

Faramir understood; but he still disagreed. The risk to his person was more than acceptable to Faramir in order to well and truly entrap Belven with his own words, even if by doing so the identity of his father came out. In that case, Faramir reasoned to himself, Aragorn might not even care whether Faramir had risked his life. He might want nothing to do with Faramir. 

Hardening his own heart to accept that possibility, Faramir nodded to the King, and said, “I disagree, your Grace, but I will abide by your orders,” which Aragorn hadn’t yet given, not in the formal sense of the word, “But perhaps,” Faramir proposed, “We could give the matter a few days, and see if a mutually agreeable plan occurs to one of us? Belven will be in seclusion preparing for his official confirmation as the new Chief Archivist for several days. There is little further harm he can do during that time. And we could have his movements watched. For all he knows, the Chief Archivist always rated having a Citadel Guard accompany him.” 

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully, with a proud gleam in his heather gray eyes, “Clever, Faramir,” he praised, “And Belven likely doesn’t know the faces and names of all of the Citadel Guards. We could also insert one of Ethiron’s Quiet Men, and say that he is a Citadel Guard-in-training.” 

Faramir nodded back, and further proposed, “With your leave, Sire, I would also like to have some of Ethiron’s Quiet Men watching Lord Tarsten. As well as his council allies on the tariff question.” 

“Not a bad idea,” Aragorn recognized, “As little as I like spying on my principal vassals when their only known crime is a difference of opinion on an issue of politics.” 

“If they don’t do anything suspicious, then they won’t even know that they’ve been spied upon,” Gimli pointed out pragmatically, “And in the meantime, any one of them could be plotting to apply more pressure on Faramir to see it their way. It’s gone beyond a political issue, and into an issue of your ward’s safety.” 

That seemed to decide Aragorn, as little as Faramir cared for the argument. With those decisions made, talk moved onto Legolas’ plans for the gardens. Faramir himself mused upon how he would manage to put his own plans into motion. He’d need to recruit several members of Gondor’s Council as witnesses to his planned confrontation with Belven. Their credibility would have to be unimpeachable. 

Perhaps Lord Sendar, who was with the King on the tariff matter, even though they had clashed – and memorably – on a number of other issues? Everyone trusted Lord Sendar’s honesty, even if most folk disliked him. And perhaps the High Priest of Eru. Maybe even Lord Andasond? He was one of Tarsten’s council allies on the tariff question, but he was also the father of Faramir’s first captain, and Faramir knew him personally to be an ethical man. Too ethical to participate in blackmail. 

And Faramir would also have to consider how to keep all of these preparations from coming to the attention of Aragorn, or Ethiron, for that matter . . . it would not be easy. But it was doable, and, Faramir felt, necessary. He owed it to Arradon to make sure that there would be no doubt as to the guilt of the man who may have killed Faramir’s mentor, and who had at the very least disgraced the position Arradon had occupied with such dignity by stooping to blackmail in the first place. 

“Faramir?” Legolas’ voice said, interrupting Faramir’s trail of thought, “I know that you’ve had a lot going on today, but have you learned anything about the body that Gimli and I found in the Archive gardens this morning?” 

“Oh . . . um, yes,” Faramir answered, “But not very much.” Faramir reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out a small leather bag, into which he’d placed the bit of silver for safe-keeping. He opened the bag and carefully emptied the bit of silver onto the pristine surface of Aragorn’s desk. 

“Beregrond and his men found this beside the body,” Faramir explained, “It looks to me like it might be a silver fitting for a tobacco pipe, like yours, Aragorn.” 

The King picked up the twist of silver and examined it intently, “It is, I believe,” he said after a few moments, “In fact, I think I recognize it. Mithrandir commissioned several pipes when he and I were last in Minas Tirith together. He gave one to me . . . I lost it during an attack by trolls on the Bruinen. He gave one also to a fellow he smoked with from time to time, his name was . . . Padron, I believe? I think he was either an archivist himself, or a priest of Aule who spent a great deal of time with the archivists.” 

“A priest of Mahal?” Gimli asked, his more personal interest clearly stimulated, “And he was clumsily buried in a garden? That just isn’t right.” 

“Padron?” Legolas questioned, his face draining of color, “He . . . he wrote several stories. For me. That Mithrandir gave to me. Stories about heroic archers in Gondor . . . Mithrandir gave them to me when I was despairing of my ability to ever equal my father in martial feats.” 

“That sounds like something Padron might have done,” Aragorn told Legolas compassionately, “He was quite interested in history, particularly military history. Or at least so I recall from my memories of that time.” 

Faramir couldn’t do very much to ease his secret-father’s grief, or Legolas’ sorrow, or Gimli’s outrage, but he could at least promise, “I will tell Beregrond to keep all three of you updated, as well as me, and to answer any questions that any of you have.” 

“That is very thoughtful of you, Faramir,” Aragorn said gratefully, with that proud gleam in his eyes again, “And now, perhaps you would like to show Legolas the newest addition to our stables?” 

Faramir grinned enthusiastically, all too happy to obey. He thought that Legolas would be quite happy to see Fire Demon, the horse that Legolas had rented for the day when they went on their ill-favored expedition to the Anduin after pipe smoke. Faramir had told Aragorn how much Legolas had liked the horse, and Aragorn had bought Fire Demon, intending to give him to Legolas, should the elven Prince like the idea. 

As he and Legolas left the room, Faramir heard Aragorn asking Gimli if he would like to smoke before dinner. 

[Aragorn POV] 

Aragorn considered his dwarven oath-brother carefully as they smoked their pipes on the balcony outside the long gallery of the King’s House. 

“I do hope that you will tell me what it is that has Faramir so upset,” Aragorn ventured cautiously, “I can understand his reticence. But knowing what is at stake will help me to protect him, should the truth come out.” 

Gimli exhaled in a long sigh, sending a long ring of smoke up towards the evening’s first stars. 

“I told the lad that I’d do my best to keep his confidence,” Gimli admitted, “But, the situation being what it is, I feel that it is best for you to know. If you could do me the favor of keeping the information to yourself until he comes to you himself – which I do believe that he will, given time – I would appreciate it.” 

“And if this villain Belven spills that truth before Faramir can entrust it to me,” Aragorn said wryly, “Than at least I will be able to give my ward the reassurance that I already know what this secret is which has him so troubled. But yes, I will wait for Faramir to tell me on his own. Unless circumstances dictate otherwise.” 

“Fair enough,” Gimli accepted. Then he proceeded to tell Aragorn what he and Legolas had learned from Faramir about the circumstances of Faramir’s birth. 

“I find that . . . hard to believe,” Aragorn admitted, “Finduilas and Denethor argued, yes, at times even about the subject of my continued presence in Gondor. But I always thought of her as very faithful to her husband and her country.” Aragorn ignored the stab of jealousy he felt at the thought of some other man taking on a father’s role in Faramir’s life. 

“Denethor seemed like quite an ass himself, if you ask me,” Gimli said bluntly, “That the poor woman decided to find herself a little pleasure outside her marriage doesn’t really surprise me. Nor does it change my highly favorable impression of your Steward.” 

“No, of course it is not Faramir’s fault,” Aragorn agreed, “Whoever his father is or was, Faramir himself is a fine young man.” In fact, Aragorn thought of the youth rather possessively, as HIS fine young man. Well, his and Arwen’s. And this new information put certain plans of Aragorn’s in need of reconsideration. Or rather, re-ordering. 

“Arwen and I had planned to ask Faramir to let us formally adopt him, just before his twentieth birthday,” Aragorn informed Gimli, “But, given this information, I think that we will make that request as soon as Arwen returns from her trip, and we can both talk to Faramir at the same time.” 

Gimli exhaled another perfect ring of smoke and raised one bushy red eyebrow, “Am I mistaken, or would that not make Faramir your heir presumptive?” 

“It would,” Aragorn confirmed, “We plan to word the adoption in such a way that any children born of my union with Arwen would take his place in the succession. But should we never have children of our own,” which Aragorn had to admit was a possibility, however much it pained him, “then Faramir would become the next King of Gondor and Arnor after me. And should I die before any of my children with Arwen came of age, Faramir would become their regent.” 

“Surely his having a different father wouldn’t affect that outcome,” Gimli asked, “So why not wait until the lad is at least of age amongst your people before laying that burden on his slender shoulders?” 

“Because our adoption of him would deprive Faramir’s blood father, if he still lives, of any paternal rights in respect of Faramir, save those which Arwen and I choose to permit,” Aragorn explained, “And I’m not willing to risk finding out that this . . . unknown soldier . . . might still be alive, and willing to step forward to take advantage of having such a famous and powerful son.” 

“I was a mite worried about that, myself,” Gimli admitted, “And if you think that adoption is truly the best way to protect the lad, then perhaps it is the right thing to do.” 

“It’s not only about protecting Faramir,” Aragorn contested, “We have come to love him. I hadn’t felt ready to become a father, on top of having just become a King, but serving as Faramir’s guardian for the past few weeks has changed my mind. Arwen feels similarly. And, whether Faramir wants to admit it or not, he is still in need of a father’s guidance, and a mother’s.” 

“I can’t argue that,” said Gimli, “But I’d advise you to handle the matter delicately. Your lad isn’t accustomed to coming first, not in anyone’s heart. Save perhaps his brother’s.” 

“That’s true enough, I know,” said Aragorn sadly, before continuing with resolve, “And we are determined to change that, for him.” 

“Well then, Aragorn-my-friend, I wish you the best of luck with that.”


	5. Faramir POV

The next few days passed very quickly for Faramir, as he struggled to put all of the necessary steps into motion so that Belven would incriminate himself in front of unassailable witnesses. Oh, and to keep what he was doing from reaching the attention of the King, the King’s Guards, Captain Ethiron, Captain Dervorin, Lord Gimli, or Prince Legolas. 

Faramir felt terrible about deceiving Aragorn, but the King hadn’t actually ORDERED Faramir not to make arrangements and then confront Belven. Of course, Aragorn certainly would have done so if Faramir had continued to object to the King’s insistence that he not be in close proximity to Belven. Faramir had learned that from his clash with the King over whether Faramir could be alone again with Lord Tarsten. Of course, they had been able to reach an amicable compromise on that issue. Faramir had agreed to having a scribe who was also a warrior sit in on all of his meetings with Lord Tarsten, ostensibly to take notes. 

But Faramir was determined to get uncontested justice for Arradon, even if that meant defying the King’s will. So Fifth-day afternoon found Faramir speaking one last time with the men he had chosen to witness his confrontation with Chief Archivist Belven. 

“Chief Archivist Belven will not be able to see you when you are in the hidden room adjoining his audience chamber,” Faramir explained to Lords Sendar and Andasond, High Priest Eliedir, Guild Master Neithan, and Acting Captain-General the Lord Tavasond, “But he will be able to hear you, if you speak. So, please remain quiet until you have heard everything you need to hear in order to substantiate my accusations of blackmail and attempted murder.” 

“These are very serious charges, Prince Faramir,” said High Priest Eliedir cautiously, “Would it not be best to have this scoundrel Belven arrested, and then proceed from there?” 

“Chief Archivist Belven is clever enough to have gotten away with his schemes for this long, your holiness,” Faramir pointed out respectfully, “Therefore I think that it would be best for you gentlemen to hear him incriminate himself. I doubt that he would be disposed to cooperate with an investigation.” 

“And I’d like to hear proof from the man’s own mouth myself,” said Lord Sendar bluntly, “Lord Morcocano was heavily in favor of Archivist Belven’s elevation to Chief Archivist. If Belven is indeed guilty of what Prince Faramir alleges, then Lord Morcocano’s allegiance to him will need to be closely examined.” 

“Indeed,” agreed Lord Andasond, “There must be no appearance of collusion against Chief Archivist Belven. Otherwise his highness’s investigation into Chief Archivist Belven will be challenged by Lord Morcocano, and his other council allies on the tariff matter, Guild Master Burgold, Lord Tarsten, and Lord Calihmetar.” 

“I had thought that you, too, were in favor of the higher tariffs, Lord Andasond,” Guild Master Neithan pointed out. 

“I am,” Andasond affirmed, “But I’d never stoop to dishonest means. Lord Tarsten and I have differed as to ethics before. If he is involved in this plot, and not merely a man who is in the same camp, then he would know better than to ask me for support.” 

“I cannot speak as to what my Lord father Tarsten may or may not have done,” said Captain General-the-Lord Tavasond fiercely, “for he and I have also differed on many issues over the years, including matters of ethics. I would not even still be his heir if he could legally bar me from it. However, my main concern is for your safety, Faramir.” 

“Surely a warrior such as Lord Faramir has nothing to fear from a sedentary fellow such as Chief Archvist Belven,” objected Guild Master Neithan. 

“If the man used poison to slay his predecessor Arradon,” Captain-General Tavasond pointed out forcefully, “Then he may well resort to poison again. There are some poisons that are virulent enough that a mere scratch of a knife coated in such a substance can kill. Did you and our new King think of that, Faramir, when the decisions was made for you to confront Chief Archivist Belven with us as witnesses?” 

Faramir had rather been hoping that point wouldn’t come up. It had been a risk, including Tavasond amongst the witnesses. He had been one of Boromir’s best friends, and had shown a marked tendency to be protective towards Faramir in the past. But Tavasond was so well-respected generally, and moreover was Tarsten’s son. It had seemed worth the risk. 

Faramir did his best to downplay the issue, “His Grace King Elessar trusts me to handle most domestic matters in Gondor.” 

“In other words,” Tavasond criticized, “He has no idea what danger you’re about to put yourself in. I propose that we put a hold on this meeting, and consult with King Aragorn before sending you in to confront Chief Archivist Belven alone.” 

“Now, wait just a moment,” Lord Sendar interjected, “the reasons why it would be best to hear of Belven’s crimes from his own mouth are still outstanding. Prince Faramir knows what’s best for Gondor. That’s why King Elessar appointed him to continue as Steward, after all.” 

“Prince Faramir,” Lord Tavasond noted irritably, “Is also still a minor. King Elessar is his guardian, however much that might irritate some of us. Our King has a right to know when his ward is about to walk into a dangerous situation.” 

“Prince Faramir,” said Faramir wryly, “also outranks all of you. Even you, Lord Tavasond. We will proceed with my plan as I have explained it to you. If any of you would like to bring up objections to my conduct later, I am sure that King Elessar would be happy to entertain them.” If he weren’t killing Faramir himself by then, of course. 

“You heard his highness, Tavasond,” said Lord Sendar, sounding both pleased and acerbically amused by the situation, “Shut up and do as you’re told. You ought to know how to toe that line, what with you being a military man.” 

“I am a military man,” Tavasond agreed, stone-faced, “And I will obey. But, Faramir? You and I, and your guardian, we will be having words after.” 

“I will be entirely at your disposal,” Faramir promised, trying his best to sound gracious. It helped that he did feel more than a little guilty. But for now, he put all of that out of his head. He had Belven to deal with. 

Faramir ushered his guests through the secret door into the hidden room which had a view into the Chief Archivist’s audience room. Then he took a deep breath, and went around to knock on the front door of that room. For a brief moment, he regretted not having Herion at his back. But he’d left his faithful squire behind in his office to finish drafting correspondence regarding the harvest numbers. 

“Enter,” called Chief Archivist Belven, who smirked unpleasantly upon seeing who it was who had come to meet him. 

“Ah . . . ‘Prince’ Faramir,” he greeted, “I take it you are here to tell me that you have changed your mind on the tariff issue, as we discussed?” 

“It wasn’t much of a discussion, Chief Archivist Belven,” Faramir replied lightly, “As I recall, you threatened me. And I’ve come to tell you that I’m not going to change my stance on the tariff issue, despite your threats. I came to the conclusion that the tariff would be counterproductive based in part on research done by your predecessor Chief Archivist Arradon. And I’m not going to endorse an idea that I feel is counterproductive to Gondor’s interests, no matter what you threaten me with.” 

“I see,” said Belven, in a disappointed tone of voice, “Then I have to presume that you won’t mind my sharing your mother’s dirty little secret with all of Gondor.” 

“She would have preferred that outcome,” said Faramir confidently, “to having a son who would yield on a matter of conscience in order to protect a secret. Especially since,” Faramir continued, his expression hardening, “My mother believed, just as Chief Archivist Arradon did, that a blackmailer is one of the lowest and most despicable types of criminals. And that such a man would not shy away from murder. Tell me, Archivist Belven, what did you put in Chief Archivist Arradon’s tea, that morning?” 

Belven gasped, and got to his feet, circling from behind his desk to confront Faramir, “You little bastard!” he sneered, “There is no way that you could have proof of that! The Haradric apothecary who sold Lord Morcocano that poison SWORE that it was traceless!” 

Faramir smiled grimly in triumph at that admission, then stepped back warily as he saw Belven pull out a knife. Just as Lord Tavasond had feared, the blade of the knife gleamed unnaturally bright, as if it had been coated with some substance unknown to Faramir. 

As he rounded the corner of his desk, Belven picked up a pot of ink and hurled it at Faramir. The young Steward knew better than to let himself be distracted by the ink pot; he kept his eye on Belven. But the Archivist must have had some training in combat, despite his reputation, based on the way that he was moving. 

Faramir wasn’t wearing his sword or even leather armor under his velvet tunic and silken undershirt; he’d wanted to dress in such a way as to give Belven no cause for alarm. In retrospect, that seemed like a rather short-sighted decision. 

Faramir dodged right as Belven darted in left, slashing wildly at the Steward with his dagger. The noise of the door opening distracted Faramir, who was hoping that one of his witnesses was already on their way to rescue him, but not Belven, who was intent on his attack. Faramir’s eyes widened as he saw Legolas dashing towards Belven. 

The elven prince knocked the murderous archivist over, heedless of the knife in his hand. Faramir shouted a warning and then dove for Belven’s hand, to stop him from stabbing Legolas in the back before his friend could roll away. 

Faramir’s hand wrenched Belven’s wrist out of alignment, sending the knife skittering harmlessly away, while Legolas held the rest of Belven down on the floor. 

“What in Eru’s name do you think that you’re doing?” Legolas furiously demanded of Faramir, ignoring the raving Belven. 

“Getting a confession,” Faramir explained shakily, before asking, “Did he scratch you? At all?” 

“No,” Legolas assured him, softening momentarily, “I saw the poison on the blade. The orcs use that trick all the time. I avoided it, Faramir, don’t worry.” 

“You’ll both regret what you’ve done today!” Belven said fiendishly, “Elf, you have plenty of enemies! And as for you, Steward,” he sneered viciously, “What will Gondor think of you when they discover that you’re no more than the bastard son of a sell-sword? So what if Thorongil was a hero! He was a fatherless mercenary wretch! The old Steward Denethor did the right thing, sending him away!” 

Legolas didn’t loose his hold on Belven’s torso, legs, and left arm, but he was now staring at Faramir in disbelief. “You . . . you’re Estel’s SON,” he whispered in disbelief, “Of course you are. There were so many clues . . . and you already knew!” he ended accusingly. 

Fortunately, Belven did not know who ‘Estel’ was, and was simply continuing to rant about Faramir being a bastard. Then a number of things happened very quickly. 

Captain-General Tavasond broke through what had previously been a very clever hidden panel, brandishing his sword and yelling for Belven to stand down. 

Aragorn, Gimli, Aragorn’s guards, and Beregrond burst through the door that Legolas had left wide open. Beregrond and Borlas took Legolas’ place holding Belven down as Gimli yanked Legolas out of danger. Faramir was too busy watching that – and marveling at the frightened and furious expression on Gimli’s face – to even notice Aragorn until Faramir was himself pulled away from Belven and held tightly against the King’s firm chest. 

“Did the blade touch you?” Aragorn demanded fiercely. 

“No,” Faramir assured him, enjoying the feeling of safety for a moment and then beginning to struggle for freedom, “Legolas got him down before he could touch me.” 

“No, Gimli,” Legolas was saying from the other side of the room, “I’m an elven warrior with centuries of training. No, the lazy human slug of a poisoner did not manage to touch me with his ridiculous little knife.” 

“Gimli,” Aragorn ordered, “Make sure that Legolas is right about that. I need to let Faramir officially arrest this ‘lazy slug of a poisoner,’ and then make sure that he’s correct about being unharmed, as well.” 

“Sire,” interrupted Beregrond, addressing Aragorn, “Your council lords wish to bear witness to former Chief Archivist Belven’s confessions to the crimes of blackmail and murder.” 

“That is not my most pressing concern at the moment, Beregrond,” Aragorn said, meanwhile loosening his hold on Faramir. 

Faramir took advantage of his freedom to beg of Legolas, who was being led off by Gimli, “Please promise me that you won’t tell him. Please. He may not want anything to do with me, anymore.” 

Legolas protested, but he was interrupted by Aragorn’s furious voice. 

“Stop right there, young man!” the King bellowed at Faramir, “And hold still. You’ve done more than enough today.” 

“Legolas, please!” Faramir whispered fiercely. 

Legolas nodded firmly before Gimli’s patience ended and the elven prince was hauled from the room. 

Aragorn grasped Faramir firmly by his right shoulder, and didn’t let go again. He let Faramir give the order to Beregrond to arrest Belven, then insisted that his councilors and the Citadel Guards give him a few minutes to speak with his Steward in private. Said Steward couldn’t help but wince, more than a little worried about what the King would have to say to him. 

Aragorn, shadowed by a disapproving Magordan and Halrandir, a disappointed Orohael, and a blank-faced Ethiron, all but hauled Faramir into a reading room. The King ordered the startled archivists who had been using the room for their research to find somewhere else to be for five minutes. 

“Aragorn, I . . .” Faramir began. 

“You will be quiet,” Aragorn said, his voice far sterner than Faramir had ever heard it before, “And you will let me check you over to make sure that you are in one piece.” 

“I’m fine,” Faramir protested, “Legolas got to him before he could hurt me, I swear it.” 

Aragorn, meanwhile, was paying no attention to Faramir’s words. His eyes and his hands were skimming over Faramir, making sure that every fold of his clothing was intact, and that every inch of exposed skin was unblemished. 

“Well,” said Aragorn, once he had completed his very thorough survey, “It seems as if you were being honest about that, at least, thank Eru.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Faramir miserably, “I didn’t want to go behind your back. But politically, without Belven having incriminated himself, it . . .” 

“There is no way for me to adequately express to you right now how little I care about the politics,” Aragorn interrupted, his gray eyes blazing, “Especially as compared to your safety. You took that decision out of my hands, despite my having made my will very clear to you. Now I will deal with Belven and your witnesses, so that what you risked does not go to waste. And you will go to your room, and wait for me there. We have much to talk about, we two, my very dear Steward and ward.”

“But shouldn’t I help you with Belven and the Councilors?” Faramir protested, feeling as if he’d entirely lost control of what was going on around him. 

“No, Faramir,” Aragorn denied calmly, but extremely firmly, “You’ve lost that right for the time being.” 

Without loosening his hold on Faramir’s right shoulder, Aragorn ordered, “Orohael, Ethiron. Take Prince Faramir to the royal apartment, and make sure that he stays there.” 

“I know where my room is, I don’t need an escort,” Faramir began to protest, but that apparently had gone a step too far, because Aragorn whirled him around, and then applied a half dozen brisk swats to Faramir’s backside, with enough strength behind them that they stung fiercely even through tunic, undershirt, leggings, and small clothes. Even worse, all three of Aragorn’s guards and the insufferable Ethiron had all just witnessed their King spank his Steward as if Faramir were a disobedient child. 

Aragorn quickly turned Faramir back around, and demanded, “Do I have your attention now, young man?” 

“Yes, Sir,” said Faramir woefully, resisting the compelling urge to rub at his smarting bottom. 

“Good,” said Aragorn, and his mien softened ever so slightly as he added, “See that you obey me, and that you also obey any order from Orohael or Ethiron, for the time being. I promise that I will come to you as soon as I can. And I promise you that you will be forgiven, although I must also assure you that you will be much sorrier than you are now before we put this matter behind us.” 

“Yes, Sir,” said Faramir again, torn between some relief at the promise of forgiveness, and trepidation over what being made to be ‘much sorrier’ might entail. His backside seemed to sting all the more in unhappy anticipation. 

“Good lad,” Aragorn praised, and then surprised Faramir by pulling him into a hard embrace. The King pressed a paternal kiss to Faramir’s forehead before handing him – quite literally – over to Orohael, and walking out the door, trailed by Magordan and Halrandir. 

Faramir was still gaping after Aragorn when Orohael cleared his throat. 

“Your highness?” Faramir’s sometimes-wresting tutor inquired politely, “If you’ll agree not to try to escape our custody, then I believe that Captain Ethiron and I can let you walk under your own power to your quarters in the King’s House.” 

Ethiron looked like he might want to object to that, but a hard look from Orohael had him standing down. 

“I promise not to try to escape your custody,” said Faramir numbly. 

“Very good, your highness,” Orophael praised brusquely, “Let’s get you to your room. Then I’ll arrange to have a meal sent up to you, since I doubt that you ate much for luncheon.” 

Faramir hadn’t, and he listened to Orohael and Ethiron bicker amicably about whether or not Magordan would remember to insist that Aragorn eat as they flanked him on his somber walk back to his rooms.


	6. Legolas POV

[Legolas POV]

Legolas stood staring at the crab apple saplings he had planted with Gimli’s help only days ago, admiring the pattern of color: White, pink, red, red, pink, white. Or at least that was how he had meant it to be. As it was, there was a great gaping hole where the last white tree should be, the place where archivist Padron had been buried. He shivered at the memory of finding the man’s hand, and then discovering the rest of him. He wondered why the man had been buried in an unmarked grave there. Had it been his wish to be buried near the archives where he had spent so much time in a beloved position? Had archivist Belven known this and is that why he had been so adamant that the ground there shouldn’t be disturbed? It seemed odd to him, and yet human behavior often seemed odd, so it was nothing new. Perhaps they would never know.

Picking up the last white sapling that had been left forgotten when Gimli had dragged him away, Legolas couldn’t decide what to do with it. Already the exposed roots were beginning to dry out and if something wasn’t done soon, the little tree would die. He longed to place it where it was originally meant to be, for the lack of symmetry in the unfinished pattern irked him, but he had not been given the all clear to bother the burial site. It must be left alone until the investigation was closed. Still, he didn’t have the heart to let it die, so gritting his teeth, he picked up the shovel that had been hastily tossed aside that day and dug a hole at the other end of the tree line making the pattern, white, white, pink, red, red, pink. It was extremely unsatisfying, but it was better than killing the white sapling, and besides he could always move it later. 

He stood for a while, trying to convince himself that he didn’t mind the alternate arrangement when someone came up beside him, and softly called his name. 

“Lord Legolas, do you have a moment?”

Legolas turned to see that the voice belonged to Beregrond. 

“Certainly,” Legolas answered. “Can I do something for you, Beregrond?”

“Nothing at all,” Beregrond answered. “It is just that Lord Faramir asked that we keep you and Lord Gimli appraised of our findings regarding Padron’s death and I saw you here. I thought you might like to be updated.”

“Indeed I would.”

“It has just come to light through our interviewing some of the older, retired archive staff that when Padron went missing he was just about to receive a promotion, so it came as a surprise when he apparently just left the city.”

“That must have been strange,” Legolas agreed. “So no one knew he had died?”

Beregrond looked uncomfortable for a moment as if he wasn’t sure if he should say anything more, but dutifully decided to do as he had been told. He had been asked to keep certain people up to date on the investigation.

“Evidently not…there are some who believed that Archivist Belven drove him away, for he believed he deserved the promotion more than Padron did and was quite vocal about it. He had been furious about it at the time evidently.”

Legolas felt a chill go down his spine as a new scenario for Belven’s motive for not wanting the ground disturbed presented itself. 

“Have you told this to Lord Faramir yet?” he asked. “If not, I will bring him the news.”

“That would be well,” Beregrond agreed, “I should probably seek out the King to let him know.”

Legolas didn’t bother to politely take leave of Beregrond, but merely nodded and sprinted towards Faramir’s office. If Belven really was guilty of “getting rid” of Padron, he very well might have done something to Arradon as well. It was quite a jump in logic, Legolas knew, and a terrible accusation to make, but the goose flesh on his scalp convinced him that he needed to hurry. 

Upon entering the Citadel he stopped running for he did not want to draw attention to himself, or worse be admonished like an errant child for running inside by one of the many middle aged housekeepers who all seemed to stare every time he entered. He did hurry though, but it was only to find Faramir was not in his office as he said he would be after all. Only Herion was there sorting through a pile of parchments and neatly stacking them in two separate piles. Herion looked up in surprise when the door opened without even a perfunctory knock as a warning, and looked even more surprised when Legolas forgot to bother greeting him.

“Where is Faramir?” he burst out. “I have an important message for him.”

“He has gone to the archives to meet with Archivist Belven,” Herion explained. “He said he had some things to work out with him. It must have been important because he needed several witnesses with him. I can relay a message if you like.”

Legolas’ heart dropped, for he knew very well what Faramir had in mind. He intended to go against the King’s orders and common sense to try to entrap Belven, and after hearing the newest findings about Padron’s death, Legolas realized that Faramir might be in more danger than even Aragorn had imagined. He needed to warn his friend, and fast. 

“I will find him there and tell him myself,” Legolas said even as he turned to leave, “You go and find Aragorn, and tell him just what you told me about where Faramir is.” Then Legolas took off at his best speed, not worrying about being scolded by the housekeeping staff this time. 

“It might be better to wait…” Herion called from the doorway, but it was too late. There was no time for explanations. 

Legolas knew even at a dead run it would take twenty minutes at least to reach the archives by the regular way, so instead he ran straight out to the Citadel kitchen garden. The wall around it was high and almost slick, no doubt to deter folks from doing just what he was about to do. Without a second thought, the lithe young elf found the few finger holds and climbed to the top of the wall, where he stood for only a few moments to look down at the sixth level below. It was a long jump to the street, which was fairly crowded with people going about their day. Were he to land there he could potentially startle someone and cause an accident. Not only that, it would draw too much attention and no doubt Gimli would hear of it, and he knew very well the dwarf should not approve of what he would consider “a dangerous, harebrained stunt”. That could only end poorly, so he looked for an alternate route to the ground. 

Just slightly to the right he could see the white roof of the archives building and realized if he went all the way to the right of the wall and jumped out instead of straight down, he could make it. It would be less likely to be noticed by others and he wouldn’t have as far to jump, that is if he could make it. There was little time to consider, so he took a deep breath, bent his knees and pushed out hard with both legs. The landing was not quite as graceful as he would have liked, for though he bent his knees upon lighting on the roof to absorb the shock, he couldn’t quite stay on his feet. He stumbled backwards and sat down hard but there was no time to think of that, so he swung around to the edge of the roof and lowered himself to the ground, where he did notice a group of children staring in open mouthed amazement. So much for not being seen! But it was too late to worry about that now. He had other matters to concern himself over. 

He ran the rest of the way to Archives’ entrance, yanked the door open and rushed in to find an unarmed Faramir dodging away from a knife-wielding Belven, and from the looks of it, the knife was coated in poison. Had Faramir not even bothered bringing some form of protection? If he had, there was no evidence of it now. How heedless could the crazy boy be? It wasn’t until he reached for his boot knife that Legolas realized that he was not armed either.

Well there was nothing to do about that now, so instead he rushed toward Belven and knocked him off balance, realizing as he did so that he should have attacked from Belven’s right side instead of his left to avoid leaving his back open to being stabbed by Belven’s poisoned blade. Fortunately Faramir was alert and caught the man’s hand in time. The knife skittered across the floor, leaving a damp trail in its path. 

Legolas was furious with Faramir, even as he fought to hold Belven down. The smallest scratch from a poisoned blade could be deadly.

“What in Eru’s name do you think that you’re doing?” Legolas demanded.

“Getting a confession,” Faramir admitted, which was just as Legolas had expected. 

A few moments were spent discussing if either of them had been touched but the poisoned knife, while Belven cursed and threatened both Faramir and Legolas. 

“Elf, you have plenty of enemies! And as for you, Steward,” Belven spat, “What will Gondor think of you when they discover that you’re no more than the bastard son of a sell-sword? So what if Thorongil was a hero! He was a fatherless mercenary wretch! The old Steward Denethor did the right thing, sending him away!” 

Legolas nearly lost his grip when he heard that name. Thorongil was a name Aragorn had used long ago when he spent time in Minas Tirith. Faramir was Aragorn’s son! 

“You…you’re Estel’s son?”

He could hardly believe it! And yet it made perfect sense! It had never occurred to him, but there had been so many clues. How many times had he thought to himself that some expression or gesture of Faramir’s reminded him strongly of Estel? Other than the color, their hair was the same, as was their body shape and even their gait, but most of all were the eyes. Those two pairs of grey eyes were mirror images of each other. Legolas now looked into those eyes, and suddenly it dawned on him that there was nothing like shock or even mild surprise in them. If anything, Faramir looked afraid. He had known all along! 

There was no time to dwell on that fact, for the next thing Legolas knew a number of people burst into the room shouting and wielding swords and knives and then a large hand grasped his upper arm painfully tight and yanked him to his feet. He swore in dismay at having been forced to loose his grip on Belven, but before he could complain he noticed someone had taken his place holding down the struggling man, and then he was forcefully yanked around again to find himself facing his very furious guardian. 

“Are you hurt?” Gimli demanded, easily turning Legolas this way and that to check for himself. Fighting against it did no good at all, for though he tried, he could not escape the dwarf’s iron grip, just as if he were a very small child in a worried parent’s hands. It always shocked him how strong Gimli was when he chose to be. In spite of Legolas’ explanation that of course he was not injured by that pitiful man’s stupid knife, he was not let loose until Gimli was satisfied that he was in once piece. Even then, the dwarf only loosened his grip. 

Aragorn’s voice broke through the commotion to suggest that Gimli take Legolas back to their quarters and inspect him more closely for damage, and it was while Gimli was distracted by this that Faramir managed to get close enough to whisper in the elf’s ear.

“Please promise me that you won’t tell him. Please. He may not want anything to do with me, anymore.” 

“Of course he will!” Legolas promised as Gimli began to drag him away, and as Aragorn began to turn his attention back to Faramir.

“Stop right there, young man!” the King bellowed, “And hold still. You’ve done more than enough today.” 

“Legolas, please!” Faramir pleaded and his desperate appeal made Legolas nod in agreement even though he didn’t wish to. After that he had to only imagine what would happen next to Faramir, because he had been hauled against his will out into the bright afternoon sunshine. 

Even out in the street Gimli did not let go of his arm, and though it was a little embarrassing, Legolas did not protest. His guardian had clearly been worried for him and for Faramir. Plus the dwarf was angry, and no wonder! Legolas was angry himself, for Faramir had been very careless and had come close to disaster. He couldn’t imagine what might have happened had he not shown up in time. 

The two of them were only a few minutes into the walk back to their quarters that Legolas began to worry about what he might have promised Faramir. He hadn’t actually said the words, but he had nodded in agreement when Faramir asked for his silence. He hadn’t really meant to, but Faramir had seemed so distraught and there was no time to consider what he should do with the shocking information that had been revealed only moments before.

Faramir was Aragorn’s son! He could hardly believe it! 

But Aragorn had a right to know didn’t he? Any man deserved to know if he had a son, and Aragorn would be happy once the shock wore off. Legolas was certain of that. It could only mean good things for Faramir as well, for the young man had lost so much in the war, and had evidently never had a loving relationship with his name father. If only Faramir would believe that, and let Aragorn know the truth, or allow Legolas to do so. And that was the real dilemma. He felt he owed it to Faramir to keep his secret after implying that he would do so. He certainly had no desire to lose Faramir’s friendship and trust. And yet he had a duty to Aragorn as well as his friend and shield brother. 

As these thoughts went round and round in his head, Gimli kept on dragging him toward the Citadel, his steps measured and determined. Gimli was not one to be distracted from his goals. It was something Legolas found both disconcerting and comforting about his guardian, that he was predictably single minded and level headed. This trait was a problem when Legolas wished to get out of bother, but it was a great comfort when he needed sound guidance or advice, and if he ever needed advice it was now. Yes he would talk to Gimli as soon as possible. After all he had not promised Faramir not to tell the dwarf. 

It wasn’t until they finally reached their shared quarters and Gimli had firmly closed the door, that Legolas realized that there were more urgent things to worry over than seeking Gimli’s advice. He was forcefully turned to face his guardian and he could see that the dwarf was still furious. Not only that, but Gimli’s ire seemed to be aimed at him, though he was not sure why. Unfortunately, his suspicions were proven correct when Gimli gave him a rough shake and demanded an explanation for what had happened at the archives.

“Have you gone completely mad?” Gimli growled, “What exactly do you think you were doing, you daft child?”

Confused and hurt at the unfair accusation, Legolas answered truthfully, if a bit sharply.

“I was rescuing Faramir of course!”

This did nothing to calm his guardian, who evidently mistook his fervency for impudence. Gimli’s brow lowered dangerously and his grip on the elf’s arms tightened again. 

“You had best watch your tone, Elfling, for you are in no position to be cheeky after the stunt you pulled! You are in enough hot water without adding impertinence to your list of crimes.”

The situation was quickly deteriorating, and for the life of him, Legolas could not understand why or what to do about it. All he knew was that Gimli was showing every sign of preparing to haul him over his knee at any moment, an experience that while never pleasant, would be worse considering that his rear end was already probably bruised from his ungainly landing on the archives roof. Surely Gimli couldn’t have found out about that already could he? Of course he couldn’t have. He’d been busy at the gates, and besides, Gimli was far too upset for it be something so minor as that. But other than that, Legolas was sure he had done nothing wrong. He was quick to point that out.

“Gimli, please, I haven’t done anything!”

Clearly the dwarf didn’t believe that, for he only dragged Legolas toward the bed, sat down on the edge and began to tug him forward between his knees, no doubt with the end goal of tossing him over the left one and pinning his legs with the right. Realizing exactly how close to that outcome he was, Legolas began to tug against the dwarf, something he would never do if he was actually deserving of a punishment, but this only seemed to frustrate the dwarf. 

“Legolas!” Gimli’s voice held a very stern warning. “Stop this nonsense immediately. You could have been killed playing such a dangerous game! I fully intend to make sure you never do such a thing again, and I hope that young Faramir is being taught the same lesson! How dare the two of you put your lives at risk like that! You knew Belven might have been dangerous and you were told to leave it to the correct authorities. A scratch from that knife could have caused one of you to lose a limb or worse!”

Finally Legolas understood what Gimli thought had happened. Evidently he believed that Legolas and Faramir had worked together to entrap Belven. It was no wonder Gimli was angry! Legolas himself had been furious when he found out what Faramir had done; he still was! Unfortunately understanding where the misunderstanding occurred didn’t prevent him ending up just as he had feared, face down on the mattress with his backside positioned over Gimli’s left thigh. His alarm was such that he could not think what to do to prevent the inevitable, and he knew time was limited. Trying to wriggle away and slide from the dwarf’s lap did no good, for he was held firm, and attempting to put his hands in the way was no help either. Gimli only held his wrists in one great hand and placed the other one on Legolas very vulnerable rear end. In spite of his panic Legolas realized that trying to fight someone of Gimli’s strength would never work, except to make things harder on himself. So instead he desperately tried reasoning with Gimli’s sense of fair play. 

“Elvellon, please, why aren’t you listening to me? You’ve never before punished me without hearing what I have to say. You know I’d never argue if I really deserved to be chastised, but this time I’ve done nothing wrong. I swear it!”

These sincere words worked the same as throwing cold water on the situation. Where Gimli had just been furious and certain he was doing the right thing, he was suddenly deflated, and when Legolas was released and allowed to slide from Gimli’s lap to his knees, a glance at the dwarf’s face showed he was horrified. Legolas found himself being crushed in Gimli’s strong embrace, his face buried in the soft beard. 

“Forgive me, Lamb,” Gimli said to the top of Legolas head, “I was so terrified to see you restraining a madman only steps away from a poisoned knife that I didn’t bother to hear your side of things. I assumed I knew what had happened, which was wrong of me. It may or may not change the outcome for you, but you have a right to have your say. What happened Lad?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Legolas let himself be held and comforted for a moment while his heart returned to its normal rhythm. Then he pulled out of Gimli’s arms and sat next to him on the bed. 

“I understand, Elvellon, really I do, for I felt the same when I saw that poisoned knife. But I promise you I was not in on the plan to entrap Belven. I only learned about it minutes before you did when I went to speak to Faramir in his office and Herion informed me where he had gone. I was the one who sent Herion to tell Aragorn.”

“Well that would have been a helpful detail for the boy to tell us!” Gimli grumbled, then sighed again. “Aragorn was with me at the gates at the time, but Herion never mentioned who had sent him.”

“It was me, Elvellon. I’m willing to take an oath!” Legolas hadn’t realized just how important it was to him that Gimli believed him, and not just to save his rear end. He craved Gimli’s respect, and the dwarf prized honesty. He very much wanted Gimli to trust him. 

“There is no need to swear, Lamb. I believe you. I should have listened to you to begin with. I was blinded by fear for you, which is no excuse, but I know you would not shame yourself by flagrantly lying to me. I hope you can forgive me for misjudging the situation.”

“Of course I can,” Legolas was feeling magnanimous after his close call, especially when he considered the number of times Gimli had let him off the hook when he actually had been guilty. This kind of evened things out a bit. Besides there were more important things to discuss with his guardian. 

“But I need to tell you something, Gimli, something important. I found out some information and I do not know what to do with it.”

“Then by all means, tell me!”

Legolas looked up into Gimli’s concerned face and he longed to tell him everything, but he hesitated at the same time. Gimli might not like that he’d promised to keep Faramir’s secret.

“Promise you will not be angry?”

Gimli actually laughed at that, in spite of the worry written in his expression.

“Well now Laddie, that I cannot do until I know what it is, but I can promise that I will hear you out before making any judgements. Now spit it out. It never does you any good to stew over things, and well you know it.”

Legolas had to admit, if only to himself that what Gimli said was true. Waiting to reveal what he had learned would only torment him until Gimli managed to inveigle it out of him anyway. He might as well get it over with. Besides that, he truly needed his guardian’s wisdom at the moment, for he did not know what to do. He only wished he could leave out certain parts of the story. But Legolas was no coward so he plunged forward.

“I…I found out who Faramir’s father is,” he said, “Belven shouted it out, and I recognized the name.”

“Durin’s anvil! Who is he? Is he still living?”

“He is indeed. Not only living, but a famous, important man, and one that we both know well.”

Legolas briefly realized that he was dragging the information out unnecessarily and probably being overly dramatic in the revelation, but he was a little worried about Gimli’s reaction. Gimli, however was not having any more prevarication. 

“Legolas enough stalling! Tell me now!” he demanded.

“H…his name was Thorongil.”

Gimli frowned for a moment as if trying to recall where he’d heard the name, but then his eyes flew wide open and he leaped to his feet.

“Aragorn is Faramir’s father?”

“I don’t believe Belven recognized that Thorongil was Aragorn,” Legolas explained, “but I know very well that Faramir knew. He begged me not to tell.”

“Mahal have mercy! And the poor lad has kept that to himself all these years.”

Legolas was a little surprised by this take on it, for he had been angry with Faramir to realize he’d kept such a secret. He hadn’t thought until now just how difficult that must have been for the young steward. It was something to ponder over later, but for now Gimli was giving him an odd look.

“But why would you be afraid I would be angry with you over this, lad? How could you possibly be to blame?”

Legolas felt his face heat, for he wished with all his heart he hadn't made that promise to Faramir. Breaking his word was not something he felt he could do, but surely Aragorn deserved to know he had a son. Plus he dreaded Gimli’s reaction.

“Faramir begged me not to tell, and I promised I wouldn’t. I didn’t mean to, but he looked so worried…”

After a moment Legolas peeked up at Gimli through his eyelashes to gauge his reaction and as it turned out he needn’t have worried. Gimli was smiling fondly.

“Ah well, Lamb, it is no matter. You acted in the heat of the moment, which is not ideal, but is understandable. And it is no problem anyway, because you never promised not to tell me, and I never promised not to tell Aragorn, so if Faramir refuses to tell Aragorn himself, then we will have a way to inform him without you having to break your word.”

Legolas felt a weight lift from his shoulders at the dwarf’s words, though he couldn’t help feel sorry for Faramir at the same time.

“He is going to be in so much trouble,” Legolas sympathetically pointed out. After all he himself was not exempt from foolish, impulsive behavior at times, so he understood how Faramir must be feeling right now. But Gimli was not quite as empathetic, evidently, for he was frowning sternly.

“As he should be! The foolish boy might have died had you not arrived in time, and after having been ordered to leave it alone. If Aragorn does not point out the error of his ways to him, you can be sure that I will!”

“Gimli!”

“He deserves whatever is coming to him,” Gimli insisted, but then his face softened a little when he looked into Legolas worried eyes. “But you needn't worry. Aragorn is no doubt angry, but he is not cruel. He would never cause real harm to the boy. I am more concerned about Aragorn himself. It will be a shock to him for certain.”

Legolas cringed just thinking about that, for who wouldn’t be shocked at such information? Not only would Estel be inheriting an almost grown son, he would also learn that he had been betrayed by a dear friend all in one fell swoop. It was a lot of information for the poor man to process at once. He was sure Aragorn would accept Faramir, but he would have to suffer the shock first. And Faramir was clearly honestly terrified of being rejected by the king. He would no doubt be suffering wondering if Legolas would keep his secret. The young elf was worried for both of his friends.

“Will you tell him tonight, Elvellon?”

“Not tonight,” Gimli decided. “I have a feeling both Aragorn and Faramir will be indisposed most of the night tonight. Let us give them the night to recover and we’ll go speak with Faramir in the morning. It will be best if he tells Aragorn himself.” 

Here he turned his eagle eye on Legolas, clearly checking to see that he was truly unhurt after his scuffle with Belven. For a moment Legolas panicked remembering that he likely had a large bruise in a very personal place from his leap from the garden wall, which was something that Gimli would not likely approve of, but fortunately the dwarf believed him when he claimed to be unhurt. Other than a cursory check of the elf’s exposed skin and a hand running over his limbs, Gimli let it go. 

“Come Lamb, let us have the midday meal here in our quarters so we can discuss how best to confront young Faramir tomorrow. It is probably best that we lay low today, for tomorrow could prove to be a little bit trying.”

Legolas wryly thought that that might be the best example of dwarven understatement he had ever heard.


	7. Faramir POV

[Faramir POV] 

Faramir paced back and forth in front of the balcony in the dining room of the apartments he shared with Aragorn and Arwen in the King’s House. The teenaged prince had not been so tormented by worry since before the end of the Ring War. His beloved King and mentor Aragorn was furious with him! And rightfully so, for Faramir’s having gone behind the King’s back to confront the treacherous former Chief Archivist Belven on his own. 

And, almost worse, Aragorn might be learning even now from the former chief archivist that he himself was Faramir’s father. How would he react to that? How could he possibly react? How could he want the son he’d only been saddled with because Faramir’s beloved mother had betrayed him? Far better for Aragorn to never know! 

And it was possible that the secret could be kept! Belven didn’t seem to know the true worth of what he knew. He still though Thorongil to have been nothing more than a mercenary. Perhaps he would keep the name to himself? 

And yes, Legolas knew, but he had promised not to tell Aragorn. A part of Faramir felt badly for even having asked his elven friend to keep the secret, for Aragorn was Legolas’ shield brother and very dear to the elf. But surely it was in Aragorn’s best interests not to know? 

Of the five honorable and well-respected witnesses whom Faramir had arranged to hear Belven’s confession, at least Lord Sendar and Lord Andasond had been army officers during the time that Aragorn had been in Gondor as Thorongil. If they’d been close enough to hear Belven spewing his angry words at Legolas and Faramir, they might have heard the name Thorongil. Would they keep their own counsel, if they had? 

That summed up to entirely too many ‘if’s’ for a strategist like Faramir to feel comfortable with. And he was already in the King’s bad graces, besides. What if Aragorn learned the truth today, and banished Faramir? A bastard heir was almost worse than no heir at all, for a bastard would cloud the succession for the legitimate children that Aragorn and Arwen would share. 

“Your highness,” Orohael the King’s guard interrupted from his seat at the dining room table, “Your lunch is growing cold.” 

“I’m not hungry, thank you, Orohael,” Faramir replied, keeping his voice level and polite despite his distraught state. 

“Aragorn will be even less pleased with you for skipping a meal, lad,” advised the King’s spymaster Ethiron, who sometimes acted as a King’s Guard. 

Now that was a little too much! Faramir could put up with well-meaning advice from Orohael, who was Faramir’s wrestling tutor and always friendly to the young steward, and to Legolas as well. But Ethiron always seemed to disapprove of Faramir. Faramir wasn’t even sure why. Aragorn’s shield brothers Legolas and Gimli and even Eomer-King had always seemed disposed to like Boromir’s younger brother. As had most of the other friends of Aragorn’s youth from the Northern Rangers. Only Ethiron seemed to hold Faramir in low esteem. 

“Why do you care if I eat or not, Captain Ethiron? You don't even like me!” Faramir complained, not ceasing in his pacing although he did shift his focus from the wall before him to Ethiron’s weathered face. 

“It's not that I don't like you, lad,” the white haired former ranger replied, buttering a piece of bread as he did so, “I like you just fine. It's that some of the things you do frustrate me greatly. My dear friend Aragorn, whom I love like a brother, cherishes you. If he lost you, I don't know as he'd be able to keep doing the things he has to do as King. And yet you persist in going places where your guards - and my men - can't keep you safe. You must understand that, from my perspective, that's no small amount vexing.” 

Faramir had stopped his pacing upon hearing from Ethiron’s lips that Aragorn cherished him. If anyone would know how Aragorn felt about Faramir (other than Arwen), it would be Ethiron. And the man’s explanation for his brusque treatment of Faramir held water. Faramir did sometimes try to evade Ethiron’s men, as a way to deal with the confines of his new life as Steward and Prince. 

Ethiron put the buttered bread on a plate and handed it to Faramir. To be polite, Faramir accepted the plate. 

“And you may not like me because I’ve been trying to convince Aragorn to ennoble you, and you don’t like that,” Faramir allowed. 

The spymaster chuckled, “Now, that part's just funny, lad. You can keep giving me a hard time Faramir, as long as you don't keep making it hard for me to protect you.” 

“I'll try,” Faramir promised. 

“You'll try to . . .” Ethiron prompted firmly, evidently having learned from Aragorn’s recent mistakes in respect of extracting specific agreements from Faramir. 

“I'll try not to make it hard for you to keep me safe anymore,” Faramir elaborated, “But sometimes I will need to lead patrols or . . .

“I'm not talking about that, and you know it,” Ethiron interrupted sternly, “I'm talking about you purposely ducking my guards or going places outside the citadel without your guards. And about you purposely confronting a known criminal without armor or arms, like you did just today.” 

“I'll try,” Faramir offered again. It was the best he was prepared to give to Ethiron right now. 

And the man seemed to realize it, for he acknowledged the oath with a grateful, “Thank you, lad. Now eat your bread.” 

Faramir only had to look at the inoffensive food for his stomach to roil. He set it on the side bar with a muttered, “I’m still not hungry.” Then he went back to pacing as troubled thoughts raced through his mind, ignoring the resigned expressions being exchanged between Orohael and Ethiron. 

After what felt like a lifetime, but judging by the height of the sun had only been two hours, Aragorn finally returned to the King’s House. He entered the dining room of his apartments trailed by a journeyman healer carrying an armful of books and scrolls. The King’s eyes immediately sought out Faramir. The tension in Aragorn’s muscular shoulders eased as he beheld the teenager. Faramir, for his part, was immediately arrested in his pacing by the King’s regard. 

Aragorn’s gaze quickly took in the untouched luncheon spread on the dining room table even as he ordered the journeyman healer to lay down his burdens, and return to his duties. Then the King dismissed Ethiron and Orohael, leaving him alone with his Steward and ward. 

“Come here, Faramir,” the King commanded. 

Heart in his throat, Faramir obeyed, only to have the King seize him in a firm embrace rather than immediately begin to scold or upbraid him. 

“I’m sorry, Aragorn, I just thought . . .” Faramir began, as he returned the embrace. 

“Hush, lad,” Aragorn directed fondly, even tenderly, “None of that yet. First I want you to look at this.” 

The King released Faramir but kept one arm around his ward’s shoulders as he opened one of the books the journeyman healer had set down on the table. 

“This,” the King said evenly, pointing to a drawing of a man in agony, “Is what would have happened to you almost at once, had Belven managed even the slightest cut to your skin with his knife. Do you understand, Faramir?” 

“Yes, Sir, but it was the only way to . . .” 

“Not yet,” Aragorn ordered, appearing to be keeping himself calm only by great dint of effort. He unrolled a scroll to reveal diagrams of healers giving a patient potions and wrapping one of the patient’s legs in herb-infused bandages, “These are the steps we would have had to have taken at once, to have had any hope of saving your life. We would have had to draw the poison into one limb, an arm or a leg, which we then would have been forced to amputate,” the King explained, continuing to unroll the scroll to reveal the healers cutting off the patient’s leg, “And even then, the likelihood that you would have survived would have been quite low. Do you understand, Faramir muin nin?” 

The Sindarin endearment meant ‘my dear one’ and was traditionally used only amongst close family, particularly parents and children but sometimes also uncles and nephews or nieces, or foster-children. 

“I . . . I understand,” Faramir replied, his mouth dry from the horror and fright of those graphic images, “I didn’t think of that. I didn’t even think to wear armor, because I didn’t want to spook Belven into thinking that something was up.” 

“I noticed that,” the King said wryly, “And you’ll be paying a price for that reckless oversight, my Faramir. I promise you that.” 

Faramir did his best to conceal a wince at that news. 

The King closed the scroll and turned the full intensity of his gray gaze on Faramir once more, “The thought of you suffering through such torments terrifies me, Faramir. Not only because I would lose my Steward and loyal prince of Ithilien, but also because I have come to love you dearly. I may not have said so aloud, and for that I am sorry. But know, in the future, that I love you far too well to allow you to risk your life when lesser measures may suffice, even if not so well.” 

“I love you too, Sir,” Faramir said, his heart greatly eased. 

“Sir?” Aragorn teased, despite his lingering temper, “Surely as you are my ward you can call me by name?” 

Faramir chuckled, for his over formality was a frequent topic of teasing between him and the King and Queen, and then amended, “I love you too, Aragorn. And Arwen as well. I will try to be more careful in the future. I promise. And I’m truly sorry to the depths of my heart that I betrayed you, but . . .” 

Aragorn held up a hand at that, “No, Faramir. You did not betray me. You went around me, you defied me, but you broke no oaths. You won't be able to get away with the same thing again, though. I'll be cursed sure I get an oath from you every time in the future that we argue about something having to do with your safety. I promise you that, young man.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Faramir recognized, shame-faced. 

“If I had made you swear such an oath, would you have broken it?” the King asked, studiedly calm. 

“No!” exclaimed Faramir, his tone fierce with hurt and frustration, “You are my King. Even when I don’t like your orders, I'll follow them. How else could I expect other men to do the same?” 

Aragorn’s lips quirked into a half smile. Then he sobered again as he asked, “And if I were to order you to betray everything our people held dear, as Denthor did?” 

“You would never do that,” Faramir said, finding a sense of calm as he felt the comforting weight of that truth. 

“And if I ever do ask such a thing of you, you have my permission to break your oath to obey me in order to do the right thing,” Aragorn pledged, “And I will also allow that if you give me your word on a matter, and later events develop differently than we expected, you have the right to make your own decisions. But if you risk yourself recklessly by so doing, you will answer to me.” 

“Yes, Sir, I mean, Aragorn,” Faramir replied, honored by the trust and care implicit in those promises. 

Aragorn favored his ward with a fond smile before growing stern again, “And as for answering to me for the recklessness you engaged in today, young man . . .” 

“Pardon,” Faramir interrupted apologetically but determinedly, “Please, first would you tell me what happened, Aragorn? With Belven, and the witnesses?” The question Faramir wanted to ask, but did not dare even think, was ‘Did anyone tell you that you once fathered me unknowingly when you were in Gondor under another man’s name?’ 

With a sigh that straddled the line between utter exasperation and reluctant admiration, Aragorn answered, “Yes, my ever-dutiful Steward, I will. Belven has been incarcerated in the Citadel dungeons, under close guard, as has Lord Morcocano. Lord Tarsten has been detained as well. Captain Beregrond is seeing to the arrangements, with assistance from Captain Ethiron.” 

“Captain-General Tavasond has delegated the military aspects of the matter to Ethiron, as his interest is too personal should his father Lord Tarsten prove to be involved more than coincidentally,” Aragorn continued, “Captains Ethiron and Beregrond would under ordinary circumstances be reporting to you. If you had not defied my will in this, and by so doing put yourself in great danger, they would be reporting to you. As it is . . . they will be reporting to me, for the time being. If you obey me henceforth, my will as well as my word, then I will reevaluate that decision before the next Council meeting.” 

Faramir nodded his understanding and acceptance of that, much chastened. But still he had to know, “What has Belven said, Aragorn?” 

“Little about his own crimes,” Aragorn answered tersely, as if Belven’s malfeasance were of less interest to him than Faramir’s safety, “Otherwise, fairly much what you would have expected, I imagine. He has claimed that you are . . . not Lord Denethor's son. 

“That much is true,” Faramir admitted, heart in his throat, scared to hear what came next in case Aragorn’s next words would be to disown him as living proof of that most personal of deceptions which his mother Finduilas had perpetrated against the King. 

Aragorn nodded, to Faramir’s great surprise accepting the enormity of his Steward’s bastardry with complete calm, “I see. Well, that is no fault of yours. I am surprised that Finduilas would have done such a thing, yes, but, it does not change who you are. You are still my Steward, and the first prince of Ithilien, because you gained my respect through your actions before, during, and after the Ring War. That you are not Denethor's son is inconvenient from a political perspective, but no more. It will not change your position in my kingdom, or in my heart. Or Arwen's. Do not fear for that.” 

Faramir sighed and then nodded. He was relieved, yes, but not entirely relieved. For Aragorn to know that Faramir was illegitimate was one thing. For Aragorn to find out that he’d been forced to father a child against his will was quite another. 

The King reached out one hand to squeeze Faramir’s right shoulder gently, “We will make arrangements so that, whoever your father was, if he still lives, he will have no claim to you beyond that which you, and Arwen and I, choose to give him.” 

Faramir nodded again, torn between gratitude and further anguish over Aragorn’s having thought to protect Faramir from a secret father who was in fact actually Aragorn himself. 

Faramir decided to offer a half-truth, “I didn't know whether my father was alive or not, when I first heard his name from my mother’s lips. I hadn't met him. He served in Gondor during my grandfather's . . . I mean during the Lord Steward Ecthelion's tenure. And he didn't know. The man who fathered me, I mean.” 

“He didn’t know what, Faramir?” Aragorn asked, confused. 

“He didn’t know that he had slept with my mother,” Faramir exclaimed, shame at his mother’s betrayal of this good man and the need to hide his secret both causing him to drop his gaze from Aragorn’s as he confessed, “She drugged him, and took advantage of him without his knowledge or consent.” 

“I . . . see,” Aragorn replied, his hand on Faramir’s shoulder tightening. “Then it is not his fault, either. And you need not be ashamed of your father, for he did not willingly lay with another man’s wife. Nor need he feel shame for having fathered you. But I will need his name, Faramir. Not now, but soon. And I would rather get it from you than from Belven.” 

“Of course,” Faramir lied, still staring at the marble floor. He had no idea what he was going to do! 

“We will discuss that matter more later,” Aragorn said kindly, “But for now – eyes up, Faramir.” 

Startled, the young prince lifted his eyes to meet Aragorn’s, heather-blue to heather-blue. 

Aragorn nodded encouragingly, even though his expression was unyielding as he said “Now, as to the consequences you must face for your defiance of your King's will, and your guardian's.” 

Faramir swallowed nervously. He’d almost forgotten all about that, in the midst of his worry about . . . the other matter. 

The King’s lips twitched into a wry half-smile at the rare sign of nervousness from his ward, “I should perhaps also tell you that the Lords Sendar and Andasond have dropped their objections to me and Arwen becoming your guardians.” 

“Truly?” Faramir asked, unable not to smile himself at that, despite his anxiety. 

Aragorn gave his ward a real, delighted smile, and brought his hand up from Faramir’s shoulder to brush an escaped tendril of red-gold hair back over Faramir’s ear, “Yes, Faramir guren. Grouchy old Lord Sendar said that the way I reacted to you being in danger was the way a father would have, not the way a King should have. That was enough for him, and for Lord Andasond, who both lost sons they loved during the War.” 

Then the King sighed heavily, and pulled Faramir into another embrace, as he said softly but fervently, “As I almost lost you, today. And I was not careful when I ran forward to get you further away from that cowardly blackguard Belven and his poisoned blade. My own guards are not happy with me, for that.” 

“I'm sorry,” Faramir managed, returning the embrace, and feeling extremely guilty not only for having endangered Aragorn, but Legolas as well. 

Aragorn chuckled as he released his ward, “Yes, you will be. But you need not feel sorry for my having acted rashly. I'm a grown man, and I can make my own decisions, and pay my own consequences.” 

Faramir’s eyes widened as he realized that Aragorn himself might end up over someone’s knee for his kindness and care in rushing to Faramir’s aid. The young prince was torn between self-reproach and guilty humor at Aragorn’s expense. 

“Don't look so pleased at the thought, brat,” the King half-teased, half-lectured, “I'm in nowhere near as much trouble as you.” 

That was a sobering truth. Faramir stepped away from Aragorn and stood to attention as he waited to hear what the consequences of his chosen acts would be. 

“You are relieved of your duties for the next two weeks. All of them,” Aragorn informed his ward firmly. 

Faramir’s jaw dropped in shock. Aragorn’s expression gave no quarter, causing Faramir to protest, “You can't do that!” 

Aragorn frowned and shook his head, “I wish I could say that I am surprised to hear you protest your fate. And yet, somehow I am not. Come along,” the King commanded, his hands landing firmly but carefully on Faramir’s shoulders as he turned his Steward about and guided Faramir to stand in the corner of the dining room. 

Faramir was too shocked to object at first. His face flushed furiously as he realized that he’d just been sent to the corner like a small child. His adolescent pride balked at the very thought, causing him to take an unthinking step backwards. 

Aragorn’s hand on Faramir’s left shoulder lifted. That was the prince’s only warning before the same hand impacted against his backside twice in swift succession. 

“Ow!” Faramir protested, but he nonetheless stepped back into the corner, blushing all the more fiercely. 

Aragorn’s left hand returned to Faramir’s shoulder as he said, “You may stay here in this corner until you rethink telling your King and guardian what he can or cannot do in respect of your care and discipline. Do you understand me, Faramir?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Faramir replied meekly, his face aflame and his backside stinging as he stared at the bright white stone walls in front of him. 

Aragorn’s hands remained on Faramir's shoulders, not coercing Faramir or forcing him, just providing steady pressure, a reminder of his presence and his care. Although the experience was humbling for Faramir, the hands on his shoulders let him know that he was not alone, so that being sent to the corner did not feel like an exile. 

“Are you ready to listen now?” Aragorn asked in a kind but still firm tone. 

Faramir found that his throat was too dry to speak, so he nodded, still blushing. 

“Very well,” the King allowed, with a light approving slap to Faramir’s right shoulder. Then the King guided Faramir over to the settee against the far wall of the dining room, opposite the white curtained windows. He pushed Faramir into a seated position, then sat down beside him. 

“You are relieved of your duties, Faramir,” Aragorn told him, his tone still affectionate yet unyielding, “And I do mean all of them, for the next two weeks. The official explanation is that you are taking this time to mourn Chief Archivist Arradon. Everyone who was in Belven’s office today also knows that you are in trouble with me for putting yourself in danger after you knew that I would not have allowed it. But that decision, I think, was in part due to your grief and outrage over Arradon's death. And so you do not bear the entire responsibility for your actions these past few days. I should have realized that you would do something foolish.” 

“No, Aragorn, I made my own decisions,” Faramir countered guiltily, “I endangered myself, and accidentally Legolas and whoever else might come to my aid, and . . .” 

“I know,” Aragorn interrupted sympathetically, “I know that you did, but I still should have known better than to let the matter of Belven’s continuing freedom go without extracting an oath from you. I should have known that you needed time to process your grief over your mentor Arradon’s death. I should have allowed you to do only whatever you absolutely needed to in order to turn over the harvest labor projection work to someone else, and then I should have made you take time off to mourn and regain your normal good spirits. I cannot go back and fix that, but you will have the time now. And it is not entirely a punishment.” 

Faramir felt utterly lost at having his duties taken from him, “But what will I do, Aragorn? Chores? Training exercises that you know I don't like?” 

The King chuckled, “No, Faramir muin. Well, perhaps some of the second, but no more than usual. You will attend on me, or on Arwen. Perhaps also Gimli or Legolas if they have need of you. If you are with Legolas, you will also be with one of my guards, so that he can keep an eye on you.” 

“That . . . that doesn't sound like much of a punishment,” Faramir objected dubiously. 

“You will have far less freedom than you are accustomed to, my Faramir,” Aragorn assured him gently, “that is some punishment in and of itself. And,” the King reached into his tunic pouch and pulled out a leather razor strap by its five-inch handle. The nine-inch long surface of the business end of the strap had been worn butter-soft, and its edges were rounded, but the strap itself was stiff. 

Aragorn laid the razor strap on the surface of the settee between them, “I think it only fair that your backside pays the price for your recklessness. Which, as you yourself noted, resulted in putting others at danger, as well. 

“Yes, Sir,” Faramir agreed reluctantly, eyeing the strap as one might a venomous snake. The young Steward had been strapped before, but only with his quiver strap. He wasn’t sure if this would be better or worse, but it was certain to be painful and humiliating, either way. 

“This was a calculated defiance on your part, Faramir,” Aragorn continued calmly but firmly, “I would never abuse you, but I am not going to go easy on you. Not for this. And not in the future for any similar offense, either.” 

“I won't do this again,” Faramir promised, “The results weren't . . . controllable,” he explained, thinking both about how Legolas had nearly died for Faramir’s heedlessness, and how it really wouldn’t have prejudiced his aims very much to have worn at least leather armor underneath his tunic. 

The King chuckled and squeezed Faramir’s right shoulder, “I should say that this exact circumstance won't ever come up again, so that you will not even be tempted! But at least in the future you will know what you are risking. And not just once. If you ever do anything like this again, calculatedly put yourself in danger and hide it from me, then you and I will be having multiple 'discussions' during which you will spend most of the time bare-bottomed over my knee, with me thoroughly tanning your hide. Do you understand me, young man?” 

“Yes,” Faramir managed, and then swallowed nervously. 

“Good, Faramir guren,” Aragorn praised, with a reassuring pat to Faramir’s shoulder, “Now, go wash up and get changed into your sleeping clothes. Call for me when you are ready. We will take care of this unpleasantness in your bed chamber. Then, after we're done, you can sleep until supper.” 

“Can I? I mean, will I be able to?” Faramir asked tentatively, reaching out against his will to touch the strap lying innocently on the settee between them. 

“You will be able to, Faramir muin dithen nin,” Aragorn assured, his hand reaching out to clasp Faramir’s, “I will stay with you until you fall asleep. And if for some reason you cannot, I will give you a soothing draught to help you sleep.” 

“Won't that take away from the lesson?” Faramir asked, looking back up to meet his guardian’s eyes with a rueful half-smile. 

“No, guren,” Aragorn replied reassuringly, “That particular lesson will be over by then, and we'll both be glad to have it done. Now go on, young man. Wash up and change.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Faramir agreed weakly. He quickly bathed and then dressed in a clean night tunic. He normally preferred to wear small clothes and leggings to sleep in as well. Faramir’s years as a ranger had prepared him for sudden and alarming wake-ups, and he’d always found it preferable to be fully dressed on such occasions. But this afternoon there would be no point in small clothes or leggings. They’d just be something else for him or Aragorn to have to take off before Aragorn strapped him. Or spanked him, if that was going to come first. Faramir almost hoped that it would. His brother Boromir had strapped him both with and without having spanked him first. The latter had hurt more, but the former had been even more humbling. 

“Aragorn?” the prince called unsteadily from his bedchamber door. 

“Right, then,” the King replied reassuringly, walking over from his and Arwen’s suite, now dressed himself in more casual clothing, “Let’s have this done.” 

Aragorn patted Faramir on the shoulder as he entered the room and then sat down on Faramir’s bed, midway between the foot and the head. He waved Faramir over to him. 

The young steward knew better than to protest, and his honor forbade it besides. He took a deep breath then walked quickly to the King’s side. He accepted the hand that Aragorn offered to help him ease his body onto the bed over the King’s knees. 

“Steady on, Faramir my lad,” the King counseled, again patting Faramir’s shoulder even as he lifted Faramir’s tunic to bare his backside, “I’ll warm you well with my hand first before it’s time for the strap.” 

Faramir only managed a nod in acknowledgement of that, but it must have been enough. Aragorn patted Faramir’s nearer bottom cheek, then Faramir felt the rush of air which signaled the approach of the first swat. And, as with the only other real spanking Faramir had taken from the King, the first swat was in earnest. 

Faramir couldn’t help but gasp at that first smack. Afterward he kept himself quiet for a long while, despite the King’s firm calloused palm landing again and again and again on his hindquarters. 

The last time that Aragorn had spanked Faramir, after Faramir’s and Legolas’ ill-advised venture to purchase pipe smoke for their respective mentors, the King had lectured and even teased Faramir during the ordeal. This time, the King allowed his strong right hand to speak for him. And it did so eloquently! Despite Faramir’s resolve to remain silent and take his spanking and then his strapping well, he soon found himself pulling a pillow down from the head of his bed to hold onto. 

“There’s no shame in crying out, my lad,” Aragorn assured him in between hard, stinging swats, “I will freely admit to you that I always did.” 

“Ye . . . yes, Sir,” Faramir gasped tearfully, holding all the more tightly to the pillow. The thought that this might be the last time that the King cared enough to discipline him, and comfort him even during that discipline, tormented Faramir’s mind and spirit even more than the spanking was searing his rear. That fear enabled him to keep relatively silent long past when he normally would have begun yelping and crying out in pained protest as Aragorn’s hand repeatedly smacked the undercurve of his bottom and the sensitive area between Faramir’s thighs and buttocks. 

After one last round of loud smacks, Aragorn declared with another gentle pat to Faramir’s back, “There, that part’s done. Rest here a moment, then I’ll help you into position for your strapping.” 

“Ye . . . yes, Ara . . . gorn,” Faramir almost whispered between heaving breaths. He thought that he should probably thank his guardian and secret father for a break between the two ordeals, but the burning discomfort of his thoroughly spanked rear end made it hard to be grateful. It also made it hard to be as mortified as Faramir thought that he should be, still lying with his bare red bottom on display over Aragorn’s knees. 

The King waited until Faramir had gotten his breath back, rubbing his ward’s back all the while. Then Aragorn offered him a hand to his feet. Faramir accepted the aid, and in fact didn’t even know how he’d have managed without it. As it was Faramir was unsteady on his feet. His hands, now freed of the pillow that he’d been holding to keep himself from the compelling urge to reach back to shield his backside, could not help but fly to his hot bottom to try in vain to rub some of the soreness away. 

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Aragorn warned tolerantly, “It will only make this next part worse.” 

“If . . . if you say so, Sir,” Faramir said tearfully, “It’s been . . . a long time . . . since I took a strapping after a spanking. And I don’t think that Boromir gave me any time between.” 

“With his temper, if you’d done anything close to as dangerous as today’s stunt, I don’t doubt it,” Aragorn said with wistful fondness as he gently but firmly grasped Faramir’s shoulder to direct him to stand by the side of his bed. 

“Here,” the King said, after laying several pillows down in front of Faramir and guiding him to lay his torso down on top of them, “lay yourself down, but keep your back arched.” 

Faramir blushed furiously as he laid down over the pillows and lifted his bottom higher in the air. The position was so humbling that it embarrassed him despite his anxiety and great discomfort. 

“Lift your backside up a little more, Faramir,” Aragorn directed matter-of-factly. 

His young steward blushed all the more as he obeyed. The King inserted yet another pillow between Faramir’s midsection and the bed, to help the teenager keep his bottom in its current aloft position. 

“Yes, just there,” Aragorn finally approved, “And do your best to stay in position. Do not fear, however. I’ve strapped many a young ranger’s backside in settings less comfortable than this. I won’t miss my target even if you flinch.” 

“I’ll stay . . . here . . . like this,” Faramir promised, his profound distress over his fear that Aragorn would reject him, perhaps as soon as the morrow, lending the teenaged prince a new stoicism in the face of merely physical pain. 

“Good lad,” Aragorn praised. He rested the soft, stiff leather strap against the undercurve of Faramir’s bottom, then lifted it away. 

Faramir took a deep breath, then exhaled it in an unexpected yelp as the impact of the strap left a searing stripe directly on top of the part of Faramir’s backside which normally encountered a chair. To Faramir’s shame, he lowered his bottom for a moment before remembering what he was to do, and lifting it back up to face the leather again. 

“You’re taking this very well, Faramir,” the King assured him, just before the strap landed again, this time just above the first stripe. 

Faramir, gasping and fighting tears, couldn’t manage an answer. Aragorn didn’t seem to expect one. The teenaged steward concentrated on staying still while the King covered his bottom, from undercurve to top, in scorching swats from the strap. Between the tenth and dozenth stroke, Faramir had lost count, he finally began yelling and crying. His backside had already been throbbing from his spanking before the strapping even started. Now the entire area felt like it was an inferno! 

“Curse it all,” Aragorn swore. Faramir heard the sound of something go flying and hit the stone floor – the strap, maybe? Then the King’s arm came around Faramir’s middle to hold him fast. 

“I’d meant to give you two dozen with the strap, lad, but I find that I don’t have the heart for it,” the King informed him, “so you get another dozen with my hand. Deep breath for me now.” 

Faramir obeyed, and then cried aloud anew as the King’s hand landed on his blazing bottom. Just a dozen swats, as Aragorn had promised, and most of them seemed to have been concentrated on the fuller parts of Faramir’s bottom, where they hurt infinitesimally less. 

“All done, Faramir guren,” Aragorn said bracingly, “Up now, and let me help you to lie down upon your stomach.” 

“Uh-huh,” Faramir managed in vague assent, tears now streaming down his face. To be honest, he lost track of where he was until he found himself lying down, as comfortably as possible, upon his bed. 

Aragorn’s hand soothingly stroked Faramir’s hair, as the King comforted, “There’s no one here but you and me, muin nin. I’ll lift your tunic up and then open the window to let the cool mountain breeze in. I’ll leave the curtains drawn, although we’re on the fourth floor and no one is likely to be able to see from the garden in any case. 

Faramir nodded his assent. The cold air sounded like a blessing. And it felt very soothing on his burning backside when it came. The steward heard his King’s steps recede, and mumbled in quiet protest. 

“I’ll be back directly, Faramir,” Aragorn called back, his tone amused and kind, “I’m just going to get you some water.” 

Water sounded good, too. Faramir only had to wait a minute before Aragorn returned with a mug of chilled water, which the King held up to help Faramir drink from his prone position. 

“There, lad, that’s better,” Aragorn soothed affectionately, “And I apologize for not thinking ahead and having some cold mint tea brewed for you, for after.” 

“Wh . . . what?” Faramir asked, baffled, and tormented by the thought that this might be the last time Aragorn comforted him so kindly, or even cared enough to correct him. 

“Whenever I had been in trouble and spanked – or worse – for it, my Ada Elrond or my arms master Glorfindel always made sure to have my favorite refreshing drink ready for me, for after it was all over,” Aragorn explained to Faramir, “When I was a child it was lemonade. Here, drink a bit more water for me, and I’ll ask Mistress Mairenwen to have iced mint tea sent up with our supper.” 

“’m not hungry,” Faramir protested, though he did drink more water. It was that or have it spilled on him. Aragorn had a healer’s knack for getting a fellow to take medicine, even if this medicine was only water. 

“Are you sure, Faramir?” the King questioned, clearly concerned, “Your squire Herion told me that you only had a few bites of lunch. And I could tell for myself that what Orohael ordered from the kitchens went mostly untouched.” 

Faramir nodded, turning his head away from Aragorn and the mug of water. He didn’t want the King to see that he was having trouble stopping his tears or calming himself, even now that his strapping was over. It wasn’t Aragorn’s fault, he couldn’t know that his every compassionate act made it even harder for Faramir to contemplate losing his regard and friendship. 

“Faramir, what is troubling you?” Aragorn asked in a tender, almost teasing tone, “You have nothing more to fear now. Well, other than that I will take you with me on my rounds at the House of Healing, and ask you to spend time helping Arwen with her embroidery, during these next two weeks.” 

“I . . . I’m just tired,” Faramir lied, not able to look his King and guardian in the eyes as he did so. 

“I’m sure you are, after how busy you must have been arranging witnesses to your little confrontation with Belven, all without my noticing anything amiss,” Aragorn noted drolly. 

Faramir found that he had yet another blush in him for that. 

Aragorn beside him chuckled, and assured, “Now, now, my fine young man, do not worry. All is well between us now. You will see that soon enough, even if you are not able to believe it just yet. I will stay with you until you fall asleep, and then I will wake you in two hours for supper.” 

“You . . . you don’t need to stay, your Grace,” Faramir protested, preparing himself to no longer be able to call his beloved King by name. 

“Your Grace? Surely you do not feel so alienated from my affection as to regress to calling me by so cumbersomely formal a title?” Aragorn asked in mock horror. 

“Sorry, Sir. I’m just tired,” Faramir lied again. 

“Yes, so you’ve said, Faramir muin nin. Do try to sleep,” the King insisted, beginning to sound slightly skeptical as well as more concerned. 

Faramir tried. He did, but sleep wouldn’t come. 

After perhaps a dozen minutes, Faramir felt another gentle pat to his back, and heard Aragorn sigh and say, “Stay here. I’ll be back soon with something to help you sleep.” 

“No!” Faramir protested, determined not to accept a kindness he felt that he did not deserve, one which Aragorn would never have extended had he known the truth about Faramir. Soon enough, Faramir would lose even his King’s friendship, for surely Aragorn would at best send him away and never want to see him again. How could he do otherwise? Faramir’s very existence would remind Aragorn of what had essentially been his rape by Faramir’s mother. 

“No?” Aragorn questioned, startled, “Why ever not?” 

“I don’t need it, I don’t deserve it!” Faramir protested, warding off another bout of anguished tears only with great effort. He didn’t want Aragorn to be ashamed of how Faramir acted, even if he couldn’t help being ashamed of Faramir’s existence. 

“That’s all nonsense, Faramir. It's been a long day, and a longer week. You're overwrought,” Aragorn dismissed, “Now would you prefer to wait here by yourself, or for me to ask Orohael or Magordan to keep you company?” 

“I’m fine alone,” Faramir said quietly, wondering in agony where he might be sent after Aragorn learned of his mother Findauilas’ betrayal, and whether he would know anyone at all there. Perhaps he would only be sent to Ithilien? Few rangers survived, but those few that had were there, and liked Faramir for himself, and not for being Denethor’s son. Ithilien might not be too bad, but in contrast to the happiness he’d found with Aragorn and Arwen it would be paltry comfort indeed. Even the sunny charms of Dol Amroth paled when compared against the feeling of family and home he’d found with Aragorn and Arwen. 

“Very well, muin dithen nin,” the King accepted, although clearly with some reservations, “I will return shortly.” 

Aragorn was true to his word, and indeed returned so quickly that Faramir was glad he’d not given in to his impulse to let his tears flow freely while he was alone. He sat up when the King entered the room and immediately regretted it, such was his discomfort upon doing so. 

“Ow,” Faramir couldn’t help but cry out. 

“Yes, ow! Lay back down, you silly youth,” Aragorn scolded, “And I’ll help you drink.” 

“No,” Faramir said, laying back down but turning his head away, “I don’t want it, I’m fine.” 

“It's not a suggestion, muin dithen nin. It's an order. Drink,” the King commanded, his expression stern and his tone unwavering even though his gray eyes were kind and concerned. 

Faramir drank, because he really didn’t have a choice. The draught tasted of vanilla and some foreign spice.

“Am I allergic to this?” the prince asked, half asleep already. 

“No, dear one, you aren’t,” Aragorn assured him fondly, “It is wise of you to ask, though. We share the same allergies to southron spices, you and I, so I know very well how to mix a draught that is safe for you. Ada Elrond and my brother Elladan taught me when I was just about your age, in fact.” 

Aragorn saying that and the taste of vanilla in his mouth were Faramir’s last clear memories of that day. Afterward, he remembered Aragorn trying to wake him several times, but being so very tired that he couldn’t obey the King’s instructions to awake and come to dinner, no matter how much he wanted to. 

At one point Faramir recalled finding himself being sat up against the King’s chest, with Aragorn trying to entice him to wake up enough to take a sip from a mug of coffee. The coffee smelled wonderful as always, but Faramir couldn’t even bestir himself to take a sip. He thought that the King put aside the coffee and helped him to lay back down on his stomach, but he couldn’t even be sure whether the coffee itself had been a real memory. Faramir loved the southern drink, but Aragorn didn’t particularly like for Faramir to have very much of it, claiming that the coffee would stunt Faramir’s growth. For him to have offered Faramir coffee revealed that the King must have been either in a very indulgent mood, or very worried by his inability to wake Faramir. Either way, Faramir feared it was a kindness he would never know again. 

“I know, Ethiron, but he’s not waking,” Faramir remembered hearing the King say, followed by the unwelcome voice of Ethiron suggesting sardonically that Faramir was just exhausted from pulling off his coup in entrapping Belven without Aragorn’s knowledge. Faramir also thought that he remembered having heard Orohael’s voice, and that of Aragorn’s Captain of his King’s Guards, Magordan, and then Aragorn’s voice again, overruling them and insisting that the Warden of the House of Healing be summoned immediately for a consultation as to why Faramir was still sleeping so deeply that Aragorn couldn’t wake him. 

At one point, Faramir remembered hearing a discussion between Ethiron, Aragorn, and Ethiron’s second-in-command Dervorin, after which Aragorn came over to try to wake Faramir again. 

“You have been using lendrestil to keep yourself awake and alert for longer hours than you should work, my dear young man,” Aragorn criticized fondly, “That, and skipping meals today, likely explains why the draught I gave you has made you sleep so deeply. You're not in more trouble, guren, but we're going to have a long discussion later about the lendrestil. And about your going back to work during the night after Arwen and I have gone to bed.” 

“I’m sorry,” Faramir had managed to protest, “But you won’t care, you won’t anything to do with me anymore.” 

Aragorn shook his head and smoothed Faramir’s shoulder-length hair away from his face as he soothed affectionately, “You're not making sense, muin dithen nin. There is nothing that you could ever do to make me stop caring about you.” 

“It's nothing I did,” Faramir agonized, “it's what my mother did. She . . . it was too awful.” 

“Hush, Faramir-nin. I know about that already. And I would never hold you responsible for something that your mother did, or your father either. Stop worrying, and go back to sleep. You can eat when you next awake,” Aragorn patiently assured him. 

“It was . . . too awful, you can’t . . .” Faramir insisted, still half-asleep. 

“Shh, stop worrying, muin dithen nin. Everything is fine. Matters are settled, between you and me. We're fine, Faramir,” Aragorn replied, kind but implacable. 

“Only . . . only until Belven tells you what my mother did,” Faramir said brokenly, almost weeping while still not fully aware. 

“I've told you, and I’m telling you again, my dear frustrating youth, I already know, it's fine,” the King said soothingly to Faramir, while turning to ask someone over his shoulder, “Healer Del, should the purple root and the valerian mixed together be making him rave? I don't remember that from my own experiences with taking a similar draught after weeks of using the stimulant lendrestil.” 

“I am not sure, your Grace,” Faramir heard a somewhat familiar voice say, “But I would not be overly concerned. Prince Faramir seems in good health, and has been under a great deal of pressure.” 

Faramir didn't like that other people were in his room while he was half-asleep and vulnerable, but he still felt safe with Aragorn holding him, even if it was for the last time. With that mixed comfort he felt himself falling back into a deeper sleep. 

The last thing he could even half-remember hearing was Aragorn saying while still holding Faramir in his arms that, “Well, my ward seems to be falling back into true sleep in any case. But I will have to watch for similar reactions to valerian and purple leaf.” 

“I will make a note of it in Prince Faramir’s file, Sir. And I would be happy to sit up with him so that you may get some rest. As I am sure that any of these gentlemen would be.” 

“No, I’ll stay with him myself.” And that statement by the King was the absolute last thing that Faramir could remember at all of that difficult day, try though he might to remember more.


	8. Legolas POV and Faramir POV

[Legolas POV] 

 

Legolas woke the next morning with a feeling of dread that he couldn’t quite shake for several reasons. it had seemed like a good idea to agree with Gimli last night that it was important for the two of them to talk to Faramir and convince him of what must be done for the best, but this morning things didn’t feel quite so clear to him. In the White City, Legolas had no other friend quite like Faramir, someone who felt near his own age and who understood his concerns. He had Gimli of course, and even Aragorn to some extent, but Gimli’s role was definitely parental, and even though he did his best to be understanding and helpful, his first thought was always to protect and offer guidance. That was a good thing, and something he needed, but it was not the same thing that Faramir offered. Faramir could commiserate with his frustrations and understand his need for freedom and independence and his desire not to do what was best for him all the time To occasionally make the more fun, but less responsible choice and have someone who understood that and even join in with it, was such a relief. And he could be about to lose the only relationship that fit that criteria, and it was one he cherished. Faramir might be furious with him. 

Of course, there was also the problem that Aragorn was a friend as well. More than a friend even, and didn’t he have the right to know that he had a son? He would be shocked of course, but he would adjust. Legolas was sure of that. At least he thought he was. Oh he had no doubt that Aragorn wouldn’t hold anything against Faramir, for he was far to fair a man for that, but then anyone would be shocked at such a revelation, and perhaps he would not be able to return to the friendship he currently held with Faramir. Whatever the case things would change, and Legolas could not guarantee Faramir that the change would be for the better. 

But really, there was little point in worrying over it now, for he had already talked to Gimli, and Gimli’s mind was clearly made up. They would be having a talk with Faramir, and Aragorn would find out one way or another. Certainly Gimli would be as fair minded and gentle as possible, but he would make sure that what he believed needed done would be done. His dwarf was very sure of himself and had a very strong sense of right and wrong and he had already spoken. Legolas knew deep down that there was nothing he could say to change a thing, even if he wanted to. In some ways that was in itself a relief. It was one very nice thing about having Gimli around. He was there to offer not only advice and guidance, but also to occasionally take away hard choices. To be perfectly honest, Legolas was glad not to have to make this decision. 

Still it would not be easy, and clearly Gimli recognized that as well, for in spite of his bracing cheerfulness, he was tugging worriedly at his beard, something Legolas recognized as a sign that Gimli too was feeling anxious, not that he would ever admit it. In fact he was doing his best to make things seem as usual as possible, starting with making a pot of tea to start the morning. Before Legolas had even managed to dress, Gimli had arrived with strong black tea, laced with plenty of honey and milk, the way the young elf preferred it. 

“Here Lad, you need some warmth in your belly after your difficult evening. You had quite a night last night.”

Legolas ruefully thought that he’d only barely just avoided warmth in his rear end rather than his belly when Gimli had been so sure he’d joined Faramir in his mad scheme to entrap Belven, but he decided it might be better not to mention it. There were still some parts of that tale that Gimli knew nothing about, and it was probably better that it stayed that way. There was no need for his guardian to get wind of how he’d managed to get down to the sixth level as quickly as he did. Not that he could bring himself to regret it. It had been necessary. Still Gimli had been able to change his opinion on other matters he never expected to regret, so he did not like to think of trying to prove that theory. It was much better to remain in the glow of Gimli’s approval while he could. 

“A bit difficult” Legolas agreed, taking the cup. “But all is well on that front. The harder part is today. Poor Faramir.”

“Aye, the poor lad must be beside himself,” Gimli agreed. “Imagine a child keeping such a secret for his whole life, never knowing what would happen if it came to light.”

“He thinks Aragorn will desert him,” Legolas said, fairly certain that was not true, but it was good to hear Gimli’s confident opinion on the matter.

“Well we know that is nonsense,” Gimli assured him. “Aragorn is a good fair man. He will not blame the lad for the circumstances of his birth, no matter what they are. He will just need time to adjust is all.”

“Anyone would,” Legolas agreed. “It will be a shock, no matter how fair a man he is.”

“True enough, lamb,” Gimli said. “But there is little reason for us to sit about here convincing each other. We’re better off seeking out Faramir as soon as possible. I am sure the poor lad is in need of an understanding friend or two.”

Legolas felt his stomach knot again in anticipation of Faramir’s reaction.

“He might be angry with me,” he pointed out.

“If he is, he won’t stay angry for long,” Gimli promised. “Young Faramir has a bit of fair amount of youthful passion, but deep down he is mostly a sensible lad. He will see the reasonableness of telling the truth soon enough, I do not doubt.”

Legolas hoped very much that that would be the case as he and Gimli headed off together. It was a short walk, and they had almost arrived when they spotted Aragorn, looking decidedly concerned, coming down the corridor. Legolas exchanged looks with Gimli, who only shook his head slightly to remind him that they needed to tread carefully. He may or may not know the truth yet.

“And how is young Faramir this morning?” Gimli asked, “other than the obvious, of course.”

“Other than the obvious, still not so well,” Aragorn admitted. “Things have been settled between us, and yet he cannot seem to relax or find relief. Worst off all he seems to have lost interest in eating.”

Now that was a concern, but then it was not exactly surprising considering everything, but that could hardly be said in front of the King at the moment. 

“Maybe we can convince him,” Legolas offered. “We thought he might like company.”

Aragorn reached to pat Legolas’ shoulder. 

“I would appreciate it if you could. He had a rough night with a medication last night and it would do him some good. I would stay, but…”

“Of course, you cannot stay!” Gimli hurried to object. “We shall take good care of the lad, and you’ll see him soon enough. I’ll send someone for you if it is needed.”

Aragorn only nodded and continued on his way, and then Gimli indicated that Legolas should go ahead and knock. They did so, only once, and then entered to find Faramir sitting at a small table and staring at what looked like a very princely breakfast. The table was fairly filled with enough variety to satisfy a family of hungry hobbits, and yet Faramir looked as if he were looking at curdled milk and cold porridge, which Legolas secretly thought was the most disgusting thing in the world. He couldn’t abide porridge himself, even when it was hot and covered in honey. Cold it reminded him of wallpaper paste. 

However the spread in front of Faramir looked tempting even though Faramir clearly was not tempted at all. He did turn his head to see who was entering his chambers, however, and when he did so, his eyes grew wide. His gray eyes narrowed in on Legolas, clearly asking the question that the elf knew was coming. Had he broken his word and told Aragorn. Evidently Gimli saw it as well, for he spoke up before Legolas even had the chance to open his mouth.

“We have not told Aragorn your news, my lad,” He stepped forward to put a hand on top of Faramir’s, “but I do know, and there are things that must be discussed.”

“You promised!” Faramir began, but again Gimli interrupted.

“Legolas promised not to tell Aragorn. He has not done so.”

“You knew what I meant!” Faramir spat, making Legolas cringe inwardly. Of course he had known, but he hadn’t known what else to do. 

“I am sorry, Faramir, but…” 

“None of that elfling,” Gimli said. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You were looking out for a friend, whether he appreciates that or not. You’ve kept your word even though it was something that should not have been asked of you to begin with.”

Faramir’s expression quickly changed from angry to merely distressed, making him look suddenly very young and very vulnerable. Legolas sat down across from him, and Gimli reached to gently lift his chin.

“You should not have asked, but you were desperate,” he said. “we both know that. It is a secret that has been weighing on you for far too long, and no wonder. But I know Aragorn, and I assure you all will be well if you just trust him.”

“He will not blame you,” Legolas agreed. 

“You cannot know that!” Faramir insisted. “It changes too many things. What will it mean for Minas Tirith when people find out the King has a bastard son?”

“For one thing, it is a thing the King should get to decide,” Gimli said. “it is his right and his place as your King.”

“And truthfully as your father,” Legolas pointed out. “Whether he intended it or not, he sired you. He has not been able to care for that responsibility as he would have had he known, but it is unfair to prevent him from his duty to you now.”

“So you believe I should have told him?” Faramir looked suddenly green, as if he were about to be sick. Clearly this was a new thought that perhaps what he had tried so hard to hide hadn’t really been within his rights. 

“Nay, Faramir, lad, no one is saying that at all,” Gimli assured him, “you were a babe when you were told. No child should have been given such a burden to shoulder, and you’re still only a lad now, one who has seen and had to do too much for such tender years in my opinion. Humans and elves seem to believe…well let’s just say dwarves do things differently… though that is all I will say on that matter.”

Legolas knew the use of youngsters in battle was a sore subject with Gimli, even when the youngster in question was perfectly willing and capable to be used in such a way. The dwarf felt it was not within the rights of a minor to make such a choice, and that parents should protect their young at all costs, even if it might not be the best strategic move. He had tried to help Gimli understand the importance of a King’s son being a servant to the people, no matter his age, or in Faramir’s case, the Steward’s son up until now, but Gimli either could not or would not understand. In this case, however, Legolas could not quite disagree. Faramir had been a child when his mother swore him to secrecy. He’d had to keep that secret for twelve years. Then of course there were practical matters as well. After all, Belven knew Thorongil’s name.

“If nothing else, it will be better hearing it from you, laddie,” Gimli told him, evidently thinking along the same lines. 

“I heard Belven say Thorongil’s name,” Legolas reminded him. “Gimli and I cannot be the only ones who know who that is. It is bound to be found out. Isn’t it better to tell him than live your life in fear wondering when it will come to light?”

“I…I thought perhaps you would like to visit Ithilien with me,” Faramir said, glancing up hopefully at Legolas. “We could leave this afternoon… or this morning even!” 

“But Faramir I came here for a reason, and I do not think Gimli is going to let me simply drop my own duty and leave the city, nor do I think Ada would allow me to ever return if he did so.”

“Of course not,” Gimli agreed. “I promised to watch out for the lad, and that I cannot do if he is away.”

“I could go alone…” Faramir began.

“I doubt very much if you can,” Gimli pointed out. “I am unsure if you can even stray from this chamber without the King being alerted, my boy.”

Faramir looked longingly at the third story window, but Gimli put a quick end to that line of thought.

“Do you really think breaking your neck trying to climb a slick wall or suddenly going missing after last night will serve to make anything better about this situation? Forget about the window youngling!”

Faramir sighed heavily at that, for all present knew that to be the truth. Hiding in Ithilien was definitely not an option. With that last hope extinguished, Faramir looked simply lost, making Legolas wish he knew better how to help. All he could think to do was offer support.

“We will go with you to tell him, Fara,” he promised. “There is no need to do this alone.”

“That is so, laddie,” Gimli was quick to take up the idea, “you’ve been dealing with this alone for far too long as it is. Let us go with you, Faramir. It’s the least we can do to help a friend.”

“Two friends,” Legolas pointed out.

“Right again, lamb. Two friends,” Gimli agreed. “But before we go, you'd do well to break your fast. There is no need to add lightheadedness or fainting spells to the mix.”

With that, Faramir seemed to at least take heart.

“I…I think I would like that,” he said a little shakily. “Your going with me that is. Breakfast, I do not want.”

“That’s a first,” Legolas teased, while Gimli added at the same time, “At least drink the milk.”

Faramir wrinkled his nose at the idea, but he picked up the milk to consider it at least, then gestured toward the food.

“You could join me if you like. There is enough to share, and I do not exactly feel like eating alone.”

Legolas again shared a looked with his dwarf. It was a good sign that their friend was willing to let them join him, in both breakfast and in his upcoming interview with the King. Besides that, a returning appetite had to be the first sign in things returning to normal, at least where Faramir was concerned. 

[Faramir POV] 

Between Legolas and Gimli, they coaxed Faramir into drinking half a mug of milk and a piece of plain toast. 

“Do you want butter for that, Faramir?” Legolas asked, already passing the blue and white ceramic butter crock. 

“No, thank you,” Faramir replied, unsure of how his stomach would take anything richer than the plain toast. 

“At least have some tea, lad,” Gimli recommended, “Or some of that coffee you like.” 

With a chuckle, the dwarf added, “Since the carafe of coffee is on the table, I gather that Aragorn must not have been in a mood to quarrel with you over whether it will stunt your growth this morning!”

The light reference to such a normal topic of teasing between himself and the King made Framir smile for a moment, and confide, “In truth, I think he offered me coffee last night, too. After . . .” Faramir trailed off with a blush, not wanting to mention that he’d been spanked and then strapped, although he was sure neither Gimli nor Legolas would be surprised by that consequence. “After we talked, yesterday,” Faramir ended lamely, trying not to squirm in his seat again. He hoped that Gimli and Legolas hadn’t noticed how uncomfortably he was sitting! 

Gimli chuckled again, “Aye, I imagine that Aragorn had more than a few things to ‘say’ to you about your actions yesterday!” 

Faramir’s blush deepened and he turned his attention to his neglected breakfast, picking up another piece of toast to give himself an excuse for doing so. 

“Gimli!” Legolas objected, “Be nice to Faramir!” 

“It’s fine, really,” Faramir said, looking up despite his flushed features, “I think we all know that I deserved it. I shouldn’t have gone behind Aragorn’s back. Or confronted a suspected murderer without anything in the way of armor.” 

“I should say not,” Gimli agreed sternly. 

Faramir nodded meekly, “Aragorn was very clear about what I did wrong, last night. I’m just lucky that Legolas arrived in time to keep Belven from having a clear shot at me. Thank you for that, Legolas. Your arrival was quite timely.” 

Now it was Legolas’ turn to blush, although Faramir suspected that it was out of modesty rather than embarrassment. 

“It was nothing, Faramir,” the elven prince assured him, “You would have done the same for me.” 

“Of course I would have, but I do appreciate it,” Faramir assured his friend, “And I am sorry that coming to my aid put you in danger.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Legolas dismissed. 

Gimli rolled his eyes, and disagreed, “Hush, laddie,” before looking to Faramir and saying firmly, “Such things will happen when you sneak around and do irresponsible and dangerous things without consulting with the proper authorities beforehand. But now you’ve paid the price for it. And Aragorn certainly doesn’t seem to hold it against you anymore, as well he shouldn’t.” 

“Yes, well,” Faramir said with a sigh, looking down at the same piece of toast, “In addition to . . . last night, he’s forbidden me from working – from performing any of my duties at all – for the next two weeks. He was kind enough to give the official reason for my enforced leave of absence as being a period of mourning of Chief Archivist Arradon. He actually said,” Faramir’s voice broke as he worried again about whether Aragorn would still be so kind after he knew the truth, “He said that he thought what I did was partially his fault even, that he should have made me take time off from my duties to mourn to begin with.” 

Gimli was nodding sagely, “Aye, if you hadn’t been dealing with your grief you might have been more clear-headed in your decision making. I hope that you’ll be wiser in the future. And I’m sure that these two weeks will pass quickly.” 

“Maybe,” said Faramir uncertainly, “He might send me away. After I tell him, about this, I mean.” 

“Oh, Faramir, Aragorn wouldn’t do that,” Legolas was quick to kindly reassure his friend and fellow prince. 

“You can’t know that,” Faramir disagreed, “If he’s too upset to deal with me fairly, he might. I just hope that he’ll want me back, after he . . . calms down.” 

“Now, I shouldn’t be telling you this, because I’m breaking Aragon’s confidence in doing so,” Gimli said determinedly, “But I think it is the right thing to do, to let you know, Faramir, that Aragorn told me himself that he and Arwen are planning to offer to adopt you.” 

“What?” Faramir asked, dropping the toast in complete surprise. 

“Aye. After your twentieth birthday, when you reach your majority, Aragorn said,” Gimli confirmed, “Although after he learned that Denethor was not your father, Aragorn told me that he was going to discuss with Arwen whether they ought to talk to you about adoption as soon as whenever Arwen returns from her trip with her brothers, in order to be sure to keep you safe from whoever your father might be.” 

“You see, Faramir?” Legolas said with hopeful reassurance, recovering from his own surprise much more quickly than Faramir, “Aragorn and Arwen already want to adopt you. This, your being his son, will just make that Aragorn’s right as your father, rather than something he has to ask you whether you’d like.” 

“Legolas, it is entirely different!” Faramir argued, fighting nervous nausea again. 

“Lads, lads,” Gimli interrupted loudly enough to quell them both, “There’s no point debating the matter. I tend to think that Legolas has a point, but we’ll know soon enough.” 

Directing his intense gaze back to Faramir, the dwarf asked kindly but briskly, “Now, Faramir. If you’re done with breakfast, we’ll walk with you to find Aragorn.” 

Faramir nodded and got to his feet, fighting the urge to rub his still tender backside. 

“Aragorn is probably in his offices in the Citadel by now,” Faramir explained, “he left his guards Orohael and Delufer at the antechamber to this apartment. They’ll, um, probably want to go with us.” Gimli hadn’t been wrong when he’d said that Faramir wasn’t allowed to leave the apartment without Aragorn knowing. 

“Maybe they’ll reconsider since Legolas and I will be with you,” Gimli said with some sympathy.

But when Faramir and Gimli put the matter to Orohael, the chestnut haired Royal Guard apologetically denied them. 

“I’m sorry, Prince Faramir, Lord Gimli, Prince Legolas,” Orohael protested courteously but firmly, “Aragorn, I mean, his Grace, insisted that at least one of us stay with Prince Faramir if he left the royal apartments. Aragorn specifically said that Prince Faramir is free at any time to come and speak with him, although otherwise his highness is to remain inside the royal apartments. Unless he is invited to go somewhere by the both of you, Lord Gimli and Prince Legolas, or by Captain-General Tavasond or his wife Lady Nessanie, or by Prince Amrothos. But if it’s Prince Amrothos, then two of us have to go with Prince Faramir.” 

Faramir found that list interesting. He had to concede that if he had to make a list of highly responsible persons in Minas Tirith who would put Faramir’s safety and happiness first no matter what Faramir did, his own list would look remarkably like that. 

Lost in thought, Faramir didn’t respond at first. 

“If your highness would prefer a different guard, I could call for someone else,” Orohael offered politely, “Any of us would be happy to take you to speak with our King. Except for both Lannor and Kalevi, just the two of them by themselves. They are both still young and relatively inexperienced, and Aragorn – our King – is concerned that you might unknowingly sway them into agreeing to things they should not.” 

Faramir blushed at that. Gimli looked amused, although Legolas at least seemed sympathetic on Faramir’s behalf. 

“No, Orohael, I’m happy to have you escort me,” Faramir replied, once he’d found his mental footing again. 

“Very good, your highness. His Grace said that he would spend the morning at his offices in the Citadel.” 

“Thank you,” said Faramir. With a deep sigh, and ignoring Orohael’s evident concern, Faramir led the way through the King’s House and across the courtyard into the Citadel proper. 

Faramir had made this walk many, many times since Aragorn unilaterally moved Faramir into the royal apartments following his learning of the tunnel from the Steward’s quarters into the lower city. Even before then, Faramir had been a frequent visitor to the royal apartments, often returning from there to Aragorn’s office with the King to work together on one or other matter of state. It frightened Faramir that he might never make this walk again, if Aragorn sent him away. It felt almost like walking to an execution. Or at the least a trial. A trial where Faramir had no defense, because there simply was no defense for his mother’s actions. 

As they walked through the white stone Citadel corridors with their colorful tapestries and paintings, Aragorn’s spy master Ethiron appeared and caught them up. 

“I had thought to find you in the royal apartments, your Highness,” Ethiron said, somewhat critically. 

“We’re going to see Aragorn – his Grace,” Orohael mildly scolded his fellow northern ranger, “our King said that he wanted Prince Faramir to feel free to come and speak to him at any time.” 

“Of course,” Ethiron agreed in mild surprise, “I didn’t realize that was where you were headed.” 

“Because you did not ask,” Faramir pointed out, although it looked like Orohael had been about to do so for him, which Faramir appreciated. 

“Fair enough. And I apologize for interrupting your errand, your Highness, but there is something I need to speak to you about. Urgently.” 

“I’m sure that it can wait, Captain Ethiron,” Gimli told the spymaster sternly. 

“I’m sorry to say that I have to disagree, Lord Gimli,” Ethiron told him, his hazel eyes uncharacteristically unsettled as he explained, “That blackmailing worm of a former Chief Archivist said some . . . things. Things that I would prefer to thoroughly confirm before bringing them to Aragorn’s attention. I am hoping that Prince Faramir may know something of the matter, or at least be able to point me in the right direction in terms of whom in the unsettled nest of archivists might have the information I need. If anyone does.” 

Faramir sighed and then asked the spymaster, “Belven named my father, I take it? 

“Aye,” Ethiron confirmed grimly, “And it’s information that I’d certainly like to confirm before ANYONE mentions it to our King.” 

Faramir sighed again, and concentrated on walking as he said, “Consider it confirmed, Captain Ethiron. I’m going to tell our King now.” 

“Fornicating orcs,” Ethiron swore. 

“The lad is understandably hoping for a better response from his guardian than that, Captain Ethiron,” Gimli told the man disapprovingly as Faramir glanced down at his feet. The Steward didn’t stop walking, because he was afraid that if he did stop he’d never start walking again. 

Ethiron swore again, then reached out to pat Faramir on the shoulder, “Aye, and he’s likely to find one. Steady on, lad. Our King loves you. It will be well in the end, I’m sure of it.” 

That must be nice for Captain Ethiron, Faramir thought to himself silently, but the only reply he managed to Ethiron’s reassurance was a nod. 

“This is going to make it even more important that you stop playing hide-and-seek with my guards whenever the mood strikes you, though,” Ethiron reprimanded Faramir in a slightly exasperated tone. 

“Not necessarily,” Faramir found his voice enough to air his fears, “There’s nothing stopping him from relieving me of my titles and sending me away. Then you won’t need to worry about me anymore.” 

Ethiron sighed and shook his head, still keeping pace with Faramir, “Well, clearly you need to talk to Aragorn and hear this from him, lad. But I can promise you that is NOT going to happen. And I’d worry about you anyway. As I would about pointy-ears here,” Ethiron finished, with a nod towards Legolas. 

Legolas frowned at the man and objected, “My ears are perfectly normal for an elf, Captain Ethiron.” 

“Well, I’m grateful that your ears were open yesterday when Squire Herion gave you the information you needed in order to get to the Archives fast enough to save this one’s life,” Ethiron said, with a nod towards the worried Faramir, “Although I have to recommend that in the future you not jump from the slippery kitchen wall to the roof of the Archives on the Sixth Level, Prince Legolas. You’re like to break your neck, if you make a habit of that.” 

“Eru, Legolas, I’m sorry,” Faramir managed to stir himself from his own anxiety enough to say, “I hadn’t thought of it, but you must have set a new least-time record going from my office to the Archives in time to stop Belven from stabbing me.” 

“Erm,” said Legolas, with a very concerned look in the frowning Gimli’s direction. 

“We’ll talk about it later, elfling,” Gimli promised forbiddingly. 

“You may want to make sure he’s not too bruised,” Ethiron recommended, hiding a smile, “I’m told he landed rather awkwardly. For him, that is. Most couldn’t even have made that leap.” 

Ethiron accompanied them all the way to Aragorn’s outer office. 

“Ah, your Highness,” greeted the King’s secretary Ciryon, “His Grace left instructions that you were to be admitted to his presence should you wish to speak with him. I’m sure that he will be pleased to see you. I will let him know that you are here.” 

“Thank you, Ciryon,” Faramir managed. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and then decided, “Gimli, Legolas, I appreciate your support. I wouldn’t be here without it. But I think I need to do this myself.” 

“Are you sure, lad? We’re more than willing to go with you,” Gimli assured him. 

“Estel would understand, Faramir, he really would,” Legolas gently agreed. 

“I . . . I trust that you are correct about that. But, while there is no way to make this easy to hear, I can at least give him as much privacy as possible,” Faramir told them. 

“His Grace will be glad to have you join him, Prince Faramir,” Master Ciryon said as he returned to the outer office. 

 

As Faramir nodded his thanks to Ciryon and walked into the King’s office, the prince heard Ethiron order Orohael, “Don’t let Prince Faramir go anywhere alone. And in the future, he’s to go nowhere outside the Citadel without at least yourself and one other of your number.” 

“As you say, Captain,” Orohael agreed, although it was clear to Faramir that the man was quite curious. 

“Do come in, Faramir,” Aragorn greeted him with a smile as Faramir closed the door. The King rose from his desk to walk over to Faramir and embrace him. 

“I’m glad that you felt free to come and speak to me,” Aragorn said, stepping back from Faramir with an encouraging slap to his ward’s shoulder, “Now, how can I help you, my Lad?” 

“May I sit?” Faramir asked, with a wave towards one of the wooden chairs in front of the King’s large desk. 

“Of course,” Aragorn allowed, returning to his own seat behind his desk. 

Faramir winced as his still tender backside came into contact with the chair’s surface, despite the soft velvet cushion on the elegant golden wood chair. 

“Hmm, sitting won’t be particularly comfortable for you until later today, at best, my Lad,” the King told him in a fond, teasing air, “Are you certain that you wouldn’t prefer to stand?” 

Faramir shook his head, and then forced himself to begin, “Yesterday, you asked me who my father was, your Grace.” 

Aragorn raised a dark eyebrow at the formality, but for once he let it go in favor of carefully replying, “I would like to know that, yes. Whoever he is, we will help you, Arwen and I. I promise you that, Faramir. You are not alone in this. And no matter who your father is, it will not change our love for you.” 

With a pained smile, Faramir replied, “That . . . is rather the issue, Sir.”

Speaking quickly so that Aragorn didn’t interrupt, Faramir continued, “I believe I mentioned that my father was, ah, completely unaware of my conception?” 

With flicker of pity in his heather gray eyes for the unnamed man, Aragorn acknowledged, “You did, yes.” 

Faramir’s heart ached at the thought of revealing that Aragorn's pity was for himself, but the Prince knew that he had to tell the truth. So, with another deep breath, Faramir explained, “I didn't lie to you, Sir, when I told you that I hadn't recognized my father's name. I didn't recognize the name when I first heard it when I was five years old, from my Mother before she died. And I didn't recognize it as anything more than the name of a former military hero when I was fifteen, and first saw it in writing in the Chief Archivist's office just before I joined the rangers.” 

Aragorn folded his hands in front of him on the surface of his desk and leaned forward attentively, “But the name means more to you, now?” 

With another deep breath, Faramir nodded, and said, “It does. The name that my mother and Chief Archivist Arradon gave me was Thorongil. The name you used, Sir, when you served in Gondor during the old Lord Steward Ecthelion's time. And when you returned to heal my brother Boromir during my father – the former Lord Steward Denethor’s - time.”

The King inhaled in shock. Then he tried to speak, or at least so Faramir thought, but couldn’t. He got up from his desk, placing one palm flat on its oak surface as he almost gasped, “Are you certain of this, Faramir? 

“Yes, Sir,” Faramir confirmed, his heart in his throat, “My mother swore so before the old Chief Archivist and the old High Priest.” 

Aragorn nodded, appearing to be in shock. But in his eyes, so like Faramir’s own, the young prince could see the shock, yes, and the expected pain and anger. But there was also burgeoning joy and a spark of warmth which gave Faramir hope for the first time that he might not be sent away from Aragorn’s heart and home. 

Aragorn straightened, removing his hand from the support of his desk and stepping around the large piece of furniture to come and kneel at Faramir’s side. 

Laying a firm hand reassuringly on Faramir’s right shoulder, Aragorn said with infinite care, “For my part, I am pleased. And what think you of this, ion-muin -nin . . . my dear son? You seem to have had more time to grow accustomed to this truth than I.” 

“Pleased?” Faramir asked in a gasp, “How can you be pleased, Aragorn? To have a bastard?” 

Aragorn put his right hand on Faramir’s other shoulder and then shook the youth gently, “I am very glad to have you as my son, Faramir. And you're not to refer to yourself by that term ever again.” 

The King squeezed both of Faramir’s shoulders briefly in emphasis before releasing him. Then Aragorn stepped over to the chair beside Faramir’s and turned it so that he was face to face with Faramir as he sat down. 

“But . . . but, it's what I am!” Faramir protested, “My very existence will cause Arwen so much pain!” 

With a pained smile of his own, Aragorn told Faramir, “I know my wife very well. And I promise you, my Faramir - our Faramir - that she, too, will be pleased to have you as her heart-son. At least once she recovers from the unpleasant surprise of learning how it came to pass that you are our son. And her pain will not be because of anything you did. It will not be your fault. Leave the matter of telling Arwen to me, I will take care of it. You need not worry about Arwen’s reaction any further.” Aragorn’s tone was very firm as he concluded that speech. 

“But, I'm only your bastard son . . .” Faramir protested again. At the sharp look in Aragorn’s eyes, Faramir hurriedly amended, “I mean, your illegitimate son, Sir. Not Arwen's son at all. And my very existence threatens your real children, the true heirs which you will have with Arwen! And . . .” 

Aragorn reached out with one finger and tapped Faramir's nose lightly, making his son blink in surprise and lose his train of thought. 

“I'm not sure that I care for the term 'illegitimate' either,” Aragorn said sternly, once he had Faramir’s attention, “And you are our 'real' child, Faramir, and our heir. Our heir presumptive, and our only heir, until Arwen bears a child who will share her blood as well as my own to be our heir apparent.” 

“But if I have a half-sister first instead of a half-brother, then there will still be pressure from traditional idiots to have me displace her!” Faramir said worriedly. 

“Numenor had ruling Queens, so the precedent is well established,” Aragorn disagreed, “We'll ignore the idiots, if need be. We'll get good at that, in time, I think.” 

With a wry smile, Aragorn added, “I'm afraid that we're going to have a lot of practice ignoring the commentary of idiots when Arwen returns and we officially claim you as our son and heir.” 

Then the King huffed, half a laugh and half a sigh as he stood up. He patted Faramir’s back and tousled his son’s loose wavy shoulder length hair, then returned to his seat behind his desk. 

“But . . .” Faramir objected again, sure that it was not all so easy and straightforward as Aragorn had just described. 

“Yes?” Aragorn asked calmly, “Was there anything else, Faramir?” 

“Anything . . . else?” Faramir queried, confused, “What do you mean, Sir?” 

With an affectionate smile, the King asked in briskly amused manner, “Was there anything else you wished to tell me, ion-nin? Any other matter which is weighing on your mind such that you are troubled and have no appetite?” 

“No. I mean, this was all,” Faramir answered, almost disbelievingly, “But it is . . .” 

“It is a great matter that you are my son, Faramir, yes,” Aragorn agreed, the light in his slate gray eyes still very fond, “But it is almost entirely a good thing, not a bad one. I do hope that I have convinced you of that.” 

Faramir shook his head, still certain that Aragorn must be hiding his hurt and unhappiness. Stubbornly, he persisted, “I wish I wasn't. Your son, I mean.” 

At the flash of pain in Aragorn's eyes, Faramir hurried to reassure the King his father, "Not because I don't love you and respect you. But because I wish that my mother had never hurt you and Arwen." 

“Yes, well,” Aragorn said with a sigh, “I am too glad to have you as my son to wish that you were not, no matter the cost. Do make a note of that, if you will, my fine young man.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Faramir agreed, feeling light with relief, joy and hope, despite his lingering disbelief. 

Aragorn made a disgusted face, "’Sir’ is cumbersome. Keep calling me by name, if you will. You are also welcome to call me your father, although it might be best not to do so in public until the official announcement is made. At least not unless you want to deal with strange looks and questions,” the King concluded, with a wry smile. 

Both baffled and bemused, Faramir couldn’t help but say, “I cannot believe that you are taking this truth so very calmly, Sir. I mean, Aragorn.” 

Aragorn leaned back in his chair and explained, “When I was only a little older than you are now, Faramir, I learned from my foster-father Elrond that I was Isildur's only remaining direct heir, and that I either had to surpass in achievements all of my fore-fathers, or else doom all of Arda. In comparison, this is welcome news, and not nearly so overwhelming.” 

“I suppose so,” Faramir replied dubiously, trying to adjust his world view to take such a perspective properly into account. 

“I know so,” said Aragorn with quiet certainty, “Now, unless there is something else, my Faramir . . . my son?” 

Faramir shook his head and answered, “No, Sir,” then, hopefully, Faramir asked, “Unless there is something I can help you with?” 

With a light chuckle, Aragorn fondly but firmly replied, “Under normal circumstances my answer to that question would be a resounding yes. But your punishment for going behind my back and risking your life by confronting the murderer Belven still stands, Faramir. No official duties for you for the next two weeks. Orohael will escort you back to our rooms, or you may, if you wish, join my guards - our - guards in their morning drills, and then Legolas at his gardening. I don’t want you left too much to your own thoughts today.” 

“I . . . that sounds good. I think that I would prefer to join in the drills and then help Legolas with his gardening, Sir . . . Aragorn.” 

“As you wish,” Aragorn allowed, then with a small amount of concern asked, “That is, if you are not too uncomfortable after your punishment last night? Be honest with me now.” 

“No, I'm fine,” Faramir assured him with a blush, “I've gone on missions in to Harad the day after a strapping. Just arms practice will not be too much.” 

“Of course you have,” Aragorn replied, with a disapproving sigh and narrowed eyes, “I don't like that, but there is nothing I can do about the past. Do be aware that if you had pressing duties today, martial or otherwise, I would not have strapped you yestereve, nor even spanked you soundly enough for it to still be a distraction today.” 

“Oh,” said Faramir, who wasn’t really sure what to think of that. 

“Off with you now, ion-nin,” the King said firmly, addressing Faramir in Sindarin as his son, “I will see you for luncheon in the great hall, and then we will dine together tonight.” 

“Lunch in Merethrond?” Faramir asked with an unhappy wince, “Must we?”

“If you're well enough for drilling, ion-nin, then you're well enough for sitting and eating in public,” said the King, sardonically but with great affection. “Besides, it will reassure your friend Captain-General Tavasond that I haven't punished you too severely despite your recent reckless and deceptive deeds. It will also give you an opportunity to apologize to him, for ignoring his request to ask me whether it would be appropriate for you to accept the danger of confronting Belven in person, without armor, before your actually doing so.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Faramir agreed, with another wince. How funny to think of such small things with discomfort, when before he had entered this room he had been afraid that his whole life would change for the worse, that he would be exiled from the person who had come to be so important to him, as not just King but mentor. How little these other things were, in comparison, even if Faramir had no desire to be seen squirming in his seat like a spanked child in the great hall of feasts! 

Aragorn got up from his desk again, pulled Faramir to his feet, and embraced him firmly again. 

“Go on now, ion-nin,” the King said afterward, turning Faramir about and sending him on his way with a light swat to Faramir’s backside that earned him a mildly disapproving look from his son. 

Aragorn shook his head at that and smiled fondly as he walked Faramir to the door, “I will see you at luncheon. Do be careful. And make sure that you eat something before arms practice.” 

Faramir managed a relieved smile for his King, guardian, and father as he promised, “I will.” 

All of Gimli, Legolas, Ethiron, Orohael, and Magordan, the Captain of Aragorn’s Royal Guards, were waiting in the antechamber to Aragorn’s office. Every eye turned to the King and his young Steward as Aragorn opened the door. 

“May I assume that I am not the only person have learned that you are my son today, Faramir?” Aragorn asked lightly. 

If the King was upset at that, he was hiding it well. Look though he did, Faramir found no hint of anything but fondness, amusement, and mild inquiry in Aragorn’s expression. 

“That ass Belven has been raving,” Ethiron explained for Faramir, “Your son wanted to tell you the truth himself, rather than have you learn it some other way. 

“I see. Thank you, Faramir,” Aragorn said, his hand landing reassuringly on Faramir’s left shoulder again as he praised, “Your judgement in this matter was excellent, as your judgment usually is.”

“I’m not sure if I would have had the courage if Legolas and Gimli hadn’t agreed that it was for the best,” Faramir confessed, half-ashamed of himself for that now. 

“It was you who did the right thing. Having received good advice to inspire you to do so means that you were wise enough to heed it,” Aragorn told him comfortingly, before turning his attention back to the others. 

“Gimli, Magordan, Ethiron, I would be grateful for your advice as to how to handle making this matter public,” Aragorn requested, “The Council, first, I should think, although maybe selected council members before then.” 

The latter two gentlemen nodded. Gimli favored Legolas with a stern look. 

“Legolas may join Faramir at morning arms practice with my guards, if he wishes,” Aragorn offered, “I am sure that Orohael and Halrandir will not mind keeping track of him as well, and accompanying them both to work on the gardens this afternoon if they wish.” 

After enjoining Legolas to stay with Faramir and Faramir’s guards, Gimli joined Aragorn and his advisors in the King’s office while Orohael and Halrandir escorted Faramir and Legolas back to the royal apartments. 

Legolas waited until the two of them were alone in the dining room to clasp Faramir in a brotherly embrace and ask, “He seems to have taken the news well. I told you that he would. What did he say?” 

Faramir returned the one-armed hug and answered with a relieved but still-disbelieving laugh, “He told me that he was glad that I am his son, even though my mother betrayed his trust in that terrible way. He told me that he doesn’t want me to call myself a bastard, even though that is the common term. And he said that he’ll take care of telling Arwen, and that he thinks she will be happier than she is angry, at least once she is over the shock. And then,” Faramir shook his head in further disbelief, “He asked me if there was anything else! As if this wasn’t a disaster. Then he sent me on my way, because his punishment still stands and I can’t help him with any official duties for two months.” 

“Well, I suppose that is a punishment for you,” Legolas conceded with a laugh, “I’m happy to keep you occupied in the gardens though. I can’t let you keep going as Arwen’s son and not know how to weed!” 

“Do you truly think . . .” Faramir began to ask, still concerned about Arwen’s reaction. 

“Yes! Yes, I do, it will be fine, here,” Legolas handed Faramir a plate, “Eat, and stop worrying. If you do, I will try not to show you up too badly as an archer at this morning’s practice.” 

Faramir laughingly obeyed, this time having no trouble finding his appetite, “You may have me on accuracy,” he conceded to the elven archer, “But I have you easily on distance!” 

Legolas sniffed in disdain, “That is only because you and your father are both built along the lines of giants. Between the two of us, though, I think we can outshoot all of Aragorn’s rangers.” 

“That would be preferable to wrestling lessons with Orohael, at least for today,” Faramir agreed, thinking that he would prefer not to fall on his rear end any more than necessary this day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope that you all enjoyed how Aragorn learned the truth! If you enjoyed the chapter we would love to hear from you. With multi-chapter stories the only way we know that people are still reading and enjoying is if they leave us a review, since you can only hit kudos once, so please do let us know what you think if you are so inclined. Either way, thanks for reading!


	9. sketch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a chapter update, but a drawing that goes with the last chapter. I hope you enjoy!-Beth


	10. Legolas POV Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an epilogue, and comes chronologically partly after an Arwen POV missing scene, "Arwen's Gift," which can be found here: 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14762819

[Legolas POV] 

Feeling better than he had in two days, Legolas laughed easily as Faramir managed to polish off enough food to shame a hobbit. Faramir kindly offered to share, and Legolas did sample some of the fruit and a hotcake that was drizzled with some sort of expensive honey that had been imported from some far off land. It tasted a little lighter than ordinary honey to Legolas, and in the elf’s opinion was wasted on Faramir who seemed to inhale food rather than eat it. According to Gimli that was because humans grow quickly and Faramir was very tall and destined to be even taller if his brother was anything to go by. Or his father, Legolas thought, now that they knew the truth about that. Aragorn, who himself had quite an appetite even though he was fully grown, was even taller than Boromir had been. Legolas tried to recall if Aragorn had eaten as much as his son when he was of a similar age, but they had only met one time at that stage and he could not remember. 

Whatever the case, his voracious appetite was proof that Faramir was feeling greatly relieved now that he had talked to Aragorn. Legolas was relieved as well. He had been moderately sure that Aragorn would take the news well, but he could not be one hundred percent sure, even though he had sworn it was so to Faramir. Thank the One that had turned out to be the case! 

A little shine was rubbed off the day when he was escorted along with Faramir to the archery range by Faramir’s guards. Not that Orohael and Halrandir were particularly onerous to deal with. They were actually quite friendly. Legolas just hadn’t cared for Aragorn’s description of them needing to “keep track” of him as if he were some errant child. But since arguing would likely only get him tethered to Gimli’s side, he did not bother voicing his irritation, nor did he take it out on the two guards, who after all were only doing their job. 

He felt a little better when Halrandir suggested that they stop by Legolas quarters to pick up his Lorien bow for he had wondered how he would perform with a borrowed bow from the armory. He recalled the seventy inch bow he had attempted to wield on the way to the Anduin, and had no desire to shame himself in front of Faramir and his guards. The thing was simply too long for him to pull and he could not be sure that more appropriately sized bows would be available. 

It turned out to be a good thing, for Orahel immediately called for a competition between the four of them and the experienced guard was no slouch when it came to archery. Frankly the young elf was a little surprised that any human could come close to his skill with a bow, but he had to struggle to beat the three of them in accuracy and Faramir had proven to be right about being his superior when it came to distance shooting. Still it was pleasant to beat the guards and to share the victory with his friend, and he could tell by the way Faramir smirked triumphantly and winked at him that he too was secretly gloating about having bested his guards. 

It was more gratifying still when there was a round of applause after the finally round had been concluded. Admittedly it was thin applause, only Faramir’s squire, Herion and another dark haired young man, but still it was nice to hear. Faramir, being in such a pleasant mood now that his old burden had been lifted, bowed with a flourish clapped his friend and squire on the shoulder and then reached out his right hand to the other man’s right who took it briefly in mannish fashion.

“Herdestir, it is good to see you,” Faramir said, “thank you for the appreciation.”

“It is well deserved,” Herdestir said, then his eyes flicked to include Legolas. “To both of you.”

“Herdestir, let me introduce you to my oh so talented friend,” Faramir turned toward Legolas as well. “meet Prince Legolas Thranduilion, one of the Nine Walkers. Sir. Herdestir son of Maldor, is a knight in service to Lord Tarsten of Lebennin and older brother to Herion .”

Legolas felt his face heat up at the description of himself, for he never felt comfortable with such prestigious titles that made him seem more important than he felt. He felt more uncomfortable still when Sir Herdestir smiled as if he were amused and slowly looked Legolas up and down. He took Legolas’ hand just as he had Faramir’s, only he held it for a moment longer than felt natural, and then stroked the back of the elf’s hand with his thumb before releasing him. Still his words were polite enough.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Legolas. You are very skilled indeed.”

Legolas shook off his discomfort and responded in kind. After all, what did he know about mannish customs? No doubt Herdestir was only being friendly. 

The strange encounter was long forgotten by the time he parted with Faramir and returned to his quarters to find Gimli already dressed for dinner and waiting for him to arrive. Legolas excitedly began telling him about his afternoon with Faramir only to be interrupted.

“Hush, laddie, and hurry along,” he scolded as soon as Legolas put down his bow, “We are meant to join the King in half an hour and you still stink of sweat and your face is dirty. No doubt you were too busy showing off to remember to come home on time!”

There was little sting in the words, however, for Legolas saw that his guardian was hiding a smile, so he knew Gimli was secretly pleased that he had enjoyed his day so well. No doubt he was also pleased with the outcome of his meeting with Aragorn and with how things had turned out for everyone. Gimli hadn’t said so, but he must have been worried about Aragorn's ‘reaction to such shocking news as well. 

Still even with Gimli in such a sweet mood, it was better not to push him too far, so Legolas hurried through bathing and dressing, and was soon walking alongside his dwarf, in plenty of time to make it for dinner. 

As they walked past the wall to the kitchen garden, Legolas looked away hoping Gimli would’t remember what he had been told about his leap from the top of the wall to the archive roof, but of course that was a fruitless exercise. In fact it was probably Legolas’ falsely guileless face that gave him away.

“You may take that innocent look off your face, elfling,” Gimli said. “I shall forgive you this time seeing as how you had good reason, but I had better not catch you pulling such a stunt as leaping from wall to roof again else you will regret it. is that plain?”

“But Gimli, under the circumstances…”

“Legolas!” The bass voice held a warning tone, so Legolas bit his tongue and silently scolded himself. After all he was being let off, so why was he attempting to argue? He really did need to learn when to retreat.

“It is plain,” he said, and Gimli nodded in satisfaction for his amended answer. 

The two were in perfect amity again by the time they arrived to the King’s private dining room where they found that the Queen had returned from her journey. Lady Arwen had shockingly seated herself upon her husband’s knee, so that both King and Queen were sitting next to Faramir on a small settee as they waited for dinner to be served. Aragorn’s arm rested comfortably behind Faramir’s back and Arwen held Faramir’s hand, though she jumped up when Gimli cleared his throat to announce their arrival.

“Gimli, Legolas! How nice to see you,” she said, coming forward to embrace them both. For good measure she gave Legolas what he felt was a sloppy kiss on the cheek that probably left her lip paint all over him. It took all of his self control not to wrinkle his nose and wipe it away with his hand, and he did not demur when Gimli discreetly handed him a handkerchief for later use.

Still it was lovely to see her smiling even though it was clear that she already knew the truth. It was a better reaction than anyone could have hoped for considering the circumstances. In fact she seemed nearly giddy as she insisted everyone sit down, and then asked that wine be served all around before the first course of dinner was brought on.

“I have exciting news for you, my friends, and you as well, my love.” 

“More exciting than we’ve heard already?” Aragorn asked, clearly surprised. “That must be some news!”

“Raise your glass, husband mine! You too my friends, and you as well, dear Faramir. I have something to say that is worth toasting!”

Everyone exchanged confused and amused looks, but did as they were told and raised their glasses. Arwen stood up and raised hers as well and looked around at the others almost impishly, but saying nothing as if she had to wait for just the right time. Aragorn provided that a moment later.

“Well love what is it? What is your exciting news?”

She raised her glass even higher, glancing mischievously at each of them.

“It’s a boy!” she said, and threw back her glass of wine. 

A cheer went up from the others as they followed her example and downed their wine as well. 

It certainly was good news! Very good news indeed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beth and I have already finished another short story in this AU, and we're planning a longer one. We'd love to hear from you if you read and enjoyed this chapter and the story! Either way, thanks for reading! 
> 
> And if you do review, please feel free to let us know what you would like to read in a future story, plot-wise or character development, or any specific illustration that you'd love to see. We can't promise that that is what we'll end up writing or drawing, but it's always helpful to know what readers are most interested in, and sometimes reader ideas give us very helpful inspiration! And just to be clear, all the drawings are Beth's. She's a talented artist as well as a writer, and has illustrated various of her other solo stories and co-written stories on AO3, feel free to check them out!


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